


Legends

by Guede



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bickering, Biting, Blood Kink, Cats, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Declarations Of Love, Demons, Enemies to Lovers, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Rough Sex, Self-Sacrifice, Temporary Character Death, Wild Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 08:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 68,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21600406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: Merging footballers and myth.
Relationships: David Silva/David Villa, Raúl González/David Villa, Zlatan Ibrahimović/Alessandro Nesta, Zlatan Ibrahimović/Paolo Maldini, Zlatan Ibrahimović/Paolo Maldini/Alessandro Nesta
Kudos: 5





	1. The Cat And The Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in 2009.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man and his cat seek out a magic spring and its guardian.

They made the inn just as dusk was falling. Heavy steel-gray clouds were gathering, bringing the dark in double-quick time, but the air didn’t smell like rain. It felt damp but it was the kind of damp that clung to dark caves and rotting fields, with a fetid, sweetish smell to it. Rain, one suspected, would be more of a curse than a relief.

For all of that, the inn seemed to be well-populated, with no shortage of curious faces to stare at Zlatan from the windows and the doorways. They watched him dismount and then swing the reins of his horse over its head. A shushing noise went around once, but other than that, it was strangely silent. None of the usual chatter that a stranger’s arrival should bring.

Zlatan suppressed a sigh and ignored the stares to take in the rest of the place while adjusting the flap of his coat over his chest. The beams were a bit mossy but looked sound enough, and the front step was free of refuse. A reasonably large stable was attached to the main building, somewhat blocking the dense forest beyond the town. It’d do. “Who’s in charge here?”

“Me.” A man shouldered his way through the mass at the door, then squeezed himself out into the road. He barely made it: his shoulders nearly spanned the doorway and that was when he was slightly stooping. He wore a leather apron, like a butcher, and had longish dirty-gold curls like a noble lady’s page. His nose was flattened and broad, and he alone of the onlookers was showing some emotion. “What do you want?” he asked irritably.

“A room,” Zlatan replied, after a moment’s debate on how to react. His coat shifted again and he tugged it back over his shoulder, feeling a little frustration surfacing through his fatigue. “A stall for my horse. Dinner would be nice.”

The man scowled at him, then abruptly jerked his head around, as if dismissing Zlatan. But then a thin youth slipped out of the inn and came to stop before the man. “Take his horse,” the innkeeper grunted at the boy. “You pay now.”

That was to him, Zlatan guessed. He shrugged and reached back over the saddle, pulling at the straps till his bags came loose. Then he handed the reins to the boy, but gestured for him to wait while Zlatan got open one of the bags. He dug out a silver coin and flipped it to the boy, then turned in time to catch the scowl deepen on the innkeeper’s face. Almost amused now, Zlatan dipped back into his saddlebag and produced a handful of gold coins, enough to make the innkeeper blink once. “Well?”

The innkeeper raised his head sharply, like a wary hound. For a moment he looked like he was going to take offense, but then his blunt fingers closed over the coins. He shrugged into a turn and went back into the inn.

The others got out of the way as Zlatan followed the innkeeper, then continued on to shuffle back to whatever they’d been doing before his arrival. Two men were mending a floorboard in the floor. Across the room, a woman slopped a frayed mop across the floor. A gaggle of people crouched about the fireplace, talking in low, monotone voices. They weren’t feigning their actions, but seemed genuinely uninterested now: it was like Zlatan had suddenly turned invisible to them.

“Here,” said the innkeeper, stopping behind a counter. He reached under it, then brought his arm around to the accompaniment of a few clinks. After handing Zlatan a key, he put his hand down again and got up a rag, with which he began to wipe the counter. “You want dinner now?”

“Later.” Zlatan leaned one arm against the counter, then grimaced and pulled it off to press against his chest. He looked round the room again and no one met his eyes. “Can I get some hot water sent up?”

The innkeeper stopped his hand so the tip of the rag slapped crisply against the counter. He looked at it, then up at Zlatan, as if suffering the importunings of a bratty child. Then his gaze flicked over Zlatan’s shoulder. “Elisabetta. Warm up a bucket for him.”

The maid in the corner turned, but it was another woman who appeared out of nowhere, nodded, and then whisked herself into a side-hall. Then the innkeeper began wiping the counter again, but he watched Zlatan instead of the rag, grimly awaiting more. He was no idiot, but his attentiveness utterly lacked the typical greed and self-interest of an innkeeper. He didn’t much look the part either, with the broad frame but no paunch, and arrogance paired to caution. Dress him up a bit and he’d likely stand among the court well enough, although Zlatan had a feeling the man would prefer rotting in a moldy old inn on the edge of the wilderness.

“I’m looking for a certain spring,” Zlatan said.

That earned him both a snort and a slackening of tension in the other man. The innkeeper’s gaze dropped to the counter, and his shoulders began to roll more easily into the circular sweeps of the rag. “There’s a well out back.”

“I said it was a spring I’m looking for.” Zlatan pressed his arm harder over his chest, then let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s the spring where—”

The innkeeper looked up, narrow-eyed. “You want to die, then?”

“No, but I guess I’ll see about that,” Zlatan said flippantly. Then he had to bite the inside of his mouth to stop from cursing. He yanked hard at his coat, then looked at the innkeeper. “I already paid, didn’t I? And nobody’s coming after me, so you can stop fretting, Vieri.”

If the innkeeper had been worrying about Zlatan beneath all that gruffness, he probably stopped right about then. His eyes narrowed even more, till they were barely slits. Then Vieri grunted, shaking his head. “It’s out in the woods. There’s a path behind the inn, near the well. Your horse isn’t going to go in there.”

“If I’m not back by sundown tomorrow, you can keep the horse. How’s that?” Zlatan said.

Vieri didn’t answer. He had his head down again and was scrubbing hard at a ring some mug had left, though it looked so deeply stained into the wood that it seemed pointless. Zlatan tried to talk to him a few more times, but Vieri ignored him as stubbornly as the rest, so finally Zlatan just took himself to his room.

* * *

After dropping the saddlebags on the bed, Zlatan did a quick circle of the room. It was barely big enough for the bed, a chair and a bucket for midnight pissing, but the one window overlooked the woods. Zlatan stood at it for a few minutes, looking at how the shadowy trees seemed to blend into the darkening sky. Then he pulled in the shutters and secured their latch, and turned around to sit on the bed. Another sting took him in the chest and he exhaled sharply, then pulled off his coat. Under it but over his shirt, a sling of rough cloth went from his neck down to nearly the end of his ribcage. The bulge in it was squirming impatiently, and as Zlatan ducked his head out of the sling, a black paw suddenly pushed itself out of the cloth and clawed fiercely at the air.

Zlatan dumped the sling on the mattress and looked away, rolling his eyes at the protesting noise it made. “Enough with the fucking claws,” he muttered. “We’re here, all right?”

No, said the grumpy face that protruded next from the sling. It briefly disappeared as Sandro struggled with the sling, but a bare moment later, Sandro had kicked his hindlegs free and was stalking irritably about the bed. He went behind Zlatan and came up on Zlatan’s other side, peering out at the room. At least the day’s traveling seemed to have worn out the cat as much as it had Zlatan: only one disparaging look at Zlatan later, Sandro had resigned himself to their surroundings and had seated himself at Zlatan’s hip for a prolonged grooming session.

A wry smile started to tug at Zlatan’s mouth. Some things never changed, even when they—he looked up quickly at the knock at the door, then remembered the water. He got up and took a step towards the door, then looked back at the bed. Sandro had already vanished, burrowing away somewhere.

Zlatan opened the door and took the steaming bucket from the maid, who barely looked at him before she turned around. Maybe he’d never be one of the pretty boys, but he had his attractions and that sort of reaction wasn’t the usual one women had to him.

“This really must be it,” he mumbled, swinging around. He shut the door with his heel, then put down the bucket near the bed and came back to drag the chair across the room. It fit perfectly under the door-knob.

Even so, Zlatan gave it an extra push to wedge it in tight. Then he came back across the room and bent down by the bucket to put in his hands. A moment later he’d snatched them out, swearing at the heat of the water. The service here was damnable even when it was good.

“Mrraow,” peeped up by Zlatan’s ear. He turned and Sandro, standing on the edge of the bed, looking curiously back at him. Then the cat crouched down so his whiskers quivered amid the rising curls of steam, splitting them into long ribbons. He stuck out his paw and waved it over the bucket, then yanked it back and stood up in an offended way when Zlatan pushed the bucket away.

“Well, if you want to scald yourself, be my guest,” Zlatan told him.

Sandro wrinkled his nose and padded off. Grinning, Zlatan turned back to the bucket. He made another dash at the water with his left hand, then hissed and rubbed his stinging fingers against his hip as he stood. After some searching around, he found a cleanish cloth in his bags and dipped it into the water, then ran it over his face and neck. That, he could stand.

While he scrubbed off the dust of the roads, Sandro busied himself with exploring the room. The cat prowled around the edges, occasionally stopping to poke his nose or a paw into an interesting crevice, before working his way back towards the bed. He paused to bump Zlatan’s thigh, then hopped over Zlatan’s boots and back onto the mattress. “Maoow.”

Zlatan half-heartedly suppressed his sigh as he grabbed the side of the bed. He used the support to stand up, then held out his hand, palm facing Sandro. After a wary moment, Sandro ambled over the already-rumpled sheets and sniffed Zlatan’s hand. He seemed contented with that, but as Zlatan pulled back his hand, Sandro abruptly reared up and snagged his foreclaws on Zlatan’s sleeve, trying to drag Zlatan back. He miaowed even more loudly, so Zlatan cast a furtive glance over one shoulder before scooping up the damn cat.

Of course Sandro wriggled incessantly, as if now that he had it, he didn’t want it. He tried to miaow again and Zlatan had to muffle him against a shoulder, and there went the claws through Zlatan’s shirt. “Fucking bastard,” Zlatan hissed, jerking Sandro back. He held up the cat, cradling Sandro’s head in one hand, then sighed and let Sandro back down, where he could be defiantly whiny all he wanted. “Look, I’ve got to go eat, all right? I’ll bring up something for you later.”

Sandro paced back and forth on the mattress, then planted his rump down and stared up at Zlatan. He wasn’t angry now.

“Oh…” Zlatan glanced over his shoulder again, then leaned down and gave Sandro’s ears a quick tousle. He grinned again when Sandro let out a pitiful little noise and promptly ducked away his head. “I’m not going out till the morning. Need a good rest first, what with all the fucking clawing you did today. My shirt’s a mess again.”

“Nyaow,” Sandro said. He flicked his tail tip.

“And always making us stop so you can take a shit…wonder we ever got here,” Zlatan muttered, turning around. He put his hand down on the nearest saddlebag, then took it off and headed for the door. If they were going to rob him, they’d better have the sense to kill him too because he didn’t have anywhere to go from here.

He moved the chair just enough to let himself out into the hall. After a look around, Zlatan reached back inside with one hand and awkwardly dragged the chair back against the door, so it’d slow down any attempt to get inside. He heard little footsteps come up to look and waited, but nothing came of it. Zlatan let go of the chair and pulled the door shut behind him.

* * *

The common room had emptied out a bit when Zlatan sat down with his bowl of stew, but he could feel a few eyes on his back. He hunched his shoulders against them, then snorted and straightened up, raising his head. Staring was hardly something new to him.

A floorboard rattled, and then Vieri slid onto the bench across from Zlatan. He was scowling again, his eyes restlessly shifting about like those of a maddened bull. Then he tossed back his head, and when it came down again, he had one elbow up on the table so he could brace his chin’s landing on his hand. “How’s it?” he graveled, nodding at the bowl.

“It’s all right,” Zlatan said after a moment. He stuck another spoon in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. Then he twisted the spoon in his hand to look at its back. It was dull pewter, not polished enough to show him any reflection. “Needs salt.”

“We’re too out of the way.” Vieri rocked from side to side, his upper lip curling back from his teeth. Then he dropped his arm onto the table and leaned forward. “Who are you?”

Zlatan ate some more stew. It wasn’t much, just bland enough for him to get down, and then it weighed on his stomach like lead. If he brought this up for Sandro, the cat would sulk in the corner for the whole night. “Zlatan.”

The look in Vieri’s eyes didn’t change. “Never heard of you.”

In spite of himself, Zlatan winced. Then he tilted his head and smiled, still looking at the stew he was spooning up. “Yes, well, you think they’d send somebody you’d know?”

“I thought they’d send Pippo,” Vieri said after a moment. He shifted back to look at Zlatan from an arm’s length. “Inzaghi.”

“I know who Pippo is. You might not know me but that doesn’t mean I don’t know anything,” Zlatan muttered. The edge of his spoon struck the bottom of the bowl and made the tip of the handle jab back into his hand. He grimaced and lifted it, then turned his hand so he could rub the sore spot against his chin. “Inzaghi’s fifteen leagues off, at La Vieille Dame. Patching up the place. There’s a war on, you know?”

Vieri’s brows rose. On the table his hand twisted onto its side, thumb up. Its fingers clenched in, then went dagger-straight before falling to press flat against the table again. “You’re not here for me.”

“No, I said I wanted to go to the spring.” Zlatan grinned at Vieri again, curling his lips back from his teeth. Then he heard a scrape and he looked down to see that his bowl was empty. He pushed it away and considered the mug of beer he’d also been given, then shoved that over with the bowl. “You want somebody to do with you, you go to La Vieille Dame, you storm the moat and see Inzaghi. I’m just thirsty.”

The other man exhaled so his nostrils flared hard, showing their reddish insides. He looked away, then back at Zlatan. Then he raised a hand; a woman poked her head into the room. “You want wine instead?” he asked. “You paid enough, and it’s better for you than that spring.”

“All right,” Zlatan shrugged. He watched the woman edge back into the other room—the kitchen, he figured. If he squinted, he could just glimpse some pans hanging on the wall. “You got any fish with that?”

“Fish? The spring doesn’t have fish. What do you know?” It wasn’t so much an insult as confusion, for all that Vieri’s brows drew down again.

Zlatan drummed his fingers against the table. “I know it doesn’t have fish. I just like that better than your fucking stew. Or chicken. A wing, something for me to eat later.”

After a moment, Vieri slowly gestured with his hand and the woman disappeared. Then it was quiet again. The only thing that spoke was Vieri’s hard stare, which didn’t waver even when the woman reappeared with a goblet of watered wine and a piece of chicken. She set both down by Zlatan, nodded curtly, and went back into the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel slung through her belt.

The wine smelled like dead grass that’d been left in the mud a month. Holding his breath, Zlatan drank just enough to rinse out the bits of stew stuck in his teeth. Then he pushed the goblet away and picked up the chicken from its plate. He got up from his seat and twitched his mouth into a smile for Vieri. “Well, thanks for dinner.”

“You’re still going to the spring in the morning?” Vieri abruptly asked, when Zlatan was half-past the table. He slewed around so he and Zlatan could still look at each other. “Don’t listen to him.”

Zlatan stopped, arching his brow. “Him?”

“Him.” Vieri looked away, at his hand on the table. He made a fist of it, then thumped that down as he rose, turning his back to Zlatan. He began to gather up Zlatan’s dishes. “He’ll talk to you. Don’t listen, and maybe you’ll stand a chance.”

* * *

“So what do you think that means? Vieri’s supposed to be a little cracked anyway, but he doesn’t seem that crazy to me,” Zlatan said, holding out the next strip of chicken.

Instead of looking at it, Sandro looked at Zlatan as if Zlatan was speaking nonsense. Then he nosed up and down the chicken, thoroughly smelling it before he finally deigned to nibble at the end. He bit a little too late and the strip swung away, then came to back to smack him in the nose as he dove after it, seeming reluctance suddenly gone. Squalling, Sandro hurriedly backed up and shoved his nose into a paw. He sat down, shot a snickering Zlatan an offended look, and then licked his shoulder a few times before coming back to efficiently gobble down the remainder of the chicken strip.

“I never read anything about a guardian, but then, nobody comes back from this stupid spring, supposedly.” Zlatan got up off his knees, then resettled himself on the floor against the bed, stretching out his cramped legs. He peeled off another piece from the half-stripped bone, then turned to hold it out to the cat. “But if that was really true, then how could anybody write about it?”

Sandro ate that piece before retiring, and this time it seemed for good, since he flopped down on his side with only his head up. He pawed a few times at his mouth, then let his legs lie still as his tongue swiped around his jaws. “Mrrraaaow.”

“Well, guardian or not, if all he’s going to do is talk to me, then that doesn’t seem so bad. Fuck, it’d be just like being at court again,” Zlatan mumbled, getting up. He found a spare cloth and wrapped up the rest of the chicken in it, then set that aside. Then he tried the water bucket again.

The water was only tepid now, but it was a warm night and that would likely feel better than hot or cold water. Zlatan went back to his bags and found the soap—the ball was only about the size of a hen’s egg, half as big as when he’d started out—then set that on the mattress while he stripped himself. But he’d only gotten off his shirt when he had to snatch up the soap again, glaring at Sandro.

“Nyaow,” Sandro protested, making his eyes big and innocent, as if he hadn’t just nearly patted the soap off the bed.

Zlatan snorted and reached for his trousers. Then he snorted again, but at himself, and reached out for the cat. “What, you couldn’t take a dip while I was eating?” he said. He crouched down and swished the soap through the water, then ran it over Sandro’s back as the cat obligingly twisted, popping his spine and purring. “Cats are supposed to make do with their tongues, you know. They hate water.”

Sandro ignored Zlatan’s words but paid great attention to Zlatan’s hands, coiling and flopping as Zlatan massaged the soap into his fur. He stiffened up just once, when Zlatan ducked his hindlegs into the bucket, but then resumed purring as Zlatan rinsed him off. Of course, the moment he didn’t need Zlatan anymore, he was squirming till he squirted from Zlatan’s hands. He miaowed indignantly, as if Zlatan had dropped him, and retreated to the bed to frantically try to lick off the water.

“And I let you get the water first.” Shaking his head, Zlatan ran the soap through the water again, then began to wash his arms and chest. “When I’ve got the long day tomorrow. Spoiled little fucking brat.”

“Mau,” Sandro said, sprawling over the bed. His half-dry fur ruffled messily up in patches, and occasionally he attempted to smooth it down with a paw or his tongue. Otherwise he watched Zlatan with slitted eyes.

Zlatan looked at him, then sighed and got on with his washing. When he was done, he left the soap out to dry and bundled his dirty clothes into his bags. He’d go hunt up a maid in the morning and see how much laundering cost, he supposed.

Then he laid out his one other set on the chair, which was stuffed back under the door-knob. Save for the shirt, which he threw on in lieu of a proper night-shirt. He blew out the lantern and then made his way back to the bed by memory. When his hand came down on something warm and furry and complaining, he laughed under his breath and turned himself onto the mattress. After a few minutes, Sandro forgave him and came walking up Zlatan’s breast, only to stick his claws into Zlatan again. Hissing, Zlatan half-sat up, snatching at the cat, only to miss and have Sandro run off down by his feet.

“Bastard.” In the dark, Zlatan’s body felt too tired for this. He laid back down. “Look, I have to go and you can’t come.”

Something pushed on Zlatan’s shin. Then Sandro came zigzagging up Zlatan’s body again, paws hesitating with each step. He slid off when he got to Zlatan’s belly, maybe on purpose, then pushed himself hard into Zlatan’s side. When Zlatan felt for him, the cat moved so Zlatan’s hand was cupping his head; Zlatan adjusted his fingers to fit around Sandro’s ears.

“You watch my things. Watch Vieri too, if you get a chance,” Zlatan muttered, half-asleep. He turned his head, then the rest of himself, habit making him pull Sandro out of the way. The cat didn’t protest, oddly enough, but Zlatan was too exhausted to think on it. “I’ll leave the window open, how about that? You need to go, you can go.”

Sandro didn’t say anything, but his tongue moved over Zlatan’s fingers, surprisingly dry and scratchy. Then he nosed the spot. He moved his paws to catch Zlatan’s little finger between them, and he was still holding it when Zlatan slipped off.

* * *

Halfway through dressing the next morning, Zlatan opened the window. He turned around, then turned back and Sandro was already gone. For a moment he stood there, sucking back his irritation. Then he shook his head and told himself to be grateful Sandro was still mad, and not so worried he was fussing or, worse yet, getting underfoot and trying to trip up Zlatan so Zlatan would stay.

Vieri was out, said the maid when she took Zlatan’s laundry. He’d be back at midday, if Zlatan wanted to—but Zlatan didn’t, so he just got himself a crust of bread for breakfast and then he went to find that trail behind the inn.

It didn’t take that long. He would’ve thought somebody would try to hide it, with its reputation, but there it was, a little worn, dusty bit amid all the lush undergrowth, just about wide enough for one man. He stood at its head, where the clearing of the inn met the wall of trees, and looked down the dark trail. He didn’t hear any birds, but things were rustling in there, and the shadows moved even when the wind didn’t.

Well, he had to. Zlatan reached up and grabbed his shoulder, then fingered the hilt jutting out over it. Then he shook his head and without any more hesitation, stepped onto the trail.

He’d barely gone three steps before the woods already seemed to have swallowed him up. When Zlatan turned around, he could just make out a sliver of light where the end of the trail was, where the inn was. Then he turned forward again and it was almost as if it was night, the leaves overhead were so thick. The air was cool under the trees, cool and damp almost to the point of clamminess. It made his skin prickle. And he still couldn’t hear any birds.

But it wasn’t a dead place by any means. On the contrary, the foliage was glossy and so green it did violence to the eyes to look at it for too long. Too green—Zlatan closed his eyes and stumbled on blind for a few steps, then opened his eyes and shook himself hard. For a moment he’d thought he could see it pulsing, as if the whole forest was one living creature and he was walking in its belly.

Suddenly it was funny, that thought. Swallowed alive—he laughed and the sound of his laughter was like a slap to his face amid the strange silence of the woods. But Zlatan only laughed again, louder, and then listened to the noise die away. It did so far too quickly, but it was too late to work on his fears anymore. He’d heard the quiet break before him.

He’d seen worse, and lived to tell about it. That was why they’d sent him, after all.

* * *

It was hard to tell the time in the woods since the sun wasn’t visible, but eventually Zlatan’s stomach told him it was near midday. He stopped and ate the bit of food he’d brought with him standing up, then set off again.

Not too long after that, perhaps an hour, the trail started to widen into something more like a horse-path. Up ahead seemed to be lighter as well, as if there was a break in the trees, and there was something else. Zlatan stopped again, trying to pinpoint it, and finally realized he was hearing running water.

About time, he thought, feeling the ache in his back and legs and feet. He bent down and grabbed his knees, trying to stretch out his muscles, and when he stood up, someone was looking at him with eyes as green as the trees around them.

Zlatan grabbed at his sword, then stilled. That pair of eyes blinked, then moved, and a man stepped out from behind a gnarled old oak. He was finely dressed in silks and satin, with black hose and a black doublet slashed with red at the sleeves. The doublet was half-unbuttoned, showing the frothy white shirt under it, and that in turn had its laces undone to show how the man’s bare neck smoothed into his chest. Gold thread was embroidered on his clothes, gold-and-red rings were on his fingers, and a heavy gold chain was strung about his waist. He was no youth but his skin was as smooth and perfect as any high lady’s, though it was much more tanned than was fashionable. His hair, curling delicately about his face, was a few shades browner.

“You’re going to my spring?” the man asked. His voice was a soft tenor, lilting like that of a minstrel’s.

After another moment, Zlatan let go of his sword and stood back. He looked around, then let his lower jaw drop a little in a grin. “Maybe. I’m going to a spring. I don’t know if it’s yours.”

The man smiled so he revealed just a hint of creamy white teeth, as if they were laughing together. He put his hand back on the tree trunk and edged forward, then dropped elegantly and soundlessly off the huge root on which he’d been standing. Then he came forward, slow and languid. “It has to be mine. I’ve the only one here.”

“Really?” Zlatan said. He looked around again, turning slightly so he kept facing the other man, who was coming on at a leftwards angle. “Well, I’m new here. Just got in last night.”

“From where?” The man paused on another root. He had bare feet. It wasn’t as jarring to the eye as it should have been, against all his other finery, but they were much paler than his hands or his face. When he came a step nearer, Zlatan could pick out thin blue veins in their tops—and then the man ducked playfully into the way, hands clasped behind his back, so he could smile up into Zlatan’s face. “Far away?”

Zlatan let his gaze rise and the man rose with it, so their eyes never left each other. For all the pleasantries, there was no light in the man’s eyes, only a firm opaqueness. “Far enough. So it’s your spring?”

“It’s mine,” the man agreed. He continued till he was only a foot away, and there he stopped, looking up into Zlatan’s face. He was tall, but still shorter than Zlatan and unlike most, he seemed perfectly comfortable like that. He wasn’t smiling anymore, but something about the way he held his mouth spoke of amusement and perhaps an inviting curiosity. “What do you want with it?”

“Well, to know where it is for a start, I suppose,” Zlatan said.

The man remained where he was, looking steadily at Zlatan. That blankness in his eyes changed subtly, and then he unfolded his arms from behind him so he could pick idly at his cuffs. It drew attention to his rings again—one had a huge ruby set into it, and another an unusual milky-white stone with a curvy dark line running through the middle, like a snake—and to his long, tapered fingers with their beautiful smooth nails. “You came and you don’t know?”

“I _know_ a little, otherwise I wouldn’t be wandering around this place. It’d just be nice to save myself some trouble, and not be searching the whole day.” Maybe that was a little too sharp, Zlatan thought immediately afterward. He was supposed to be charmed here, after all.

For a moment it seemed as if he was right, for the man’s eyes narrowed. But that was only for the most fleeting second; then the man had crossed the remaining space between them and was right before Zlatan, his silks whispering against Zlatan’s rougher broadcloth and leather. His fingers grazed Zlatan’s side and Zlatan glanced down, then looked up quickly, but still too late to keep the other man from putting his arms around Zlatan’s neck. The most wonderful perfume billowed up from the man with the green, green eyes, spicy but crisp and clean, full of intoxicating promise. Zlatan’s head swam and he stumbled, bowing his head so those long fingers slid into his hair and twisted into it, pulling him closer to the man.

“I don’t think you want to know,” the man breathed, temptingly pliant against Zlatan. He looked at Zlatan almost pityingly, sliding his other hand onto Zlatan’s shoulder. Then that one clamped down like iron, and the hand in Zlatan’s hair viciously yanked Zlatan’s head around.

At the same time, Zlatan ripped at the chain about the man’s waist. He pulled so hard that the man fell into him, grip loosening before he could break Zlatan’s neck. They swayed uncertainly for a few seconds, till Zlatan spotted the man’s mouth and dove for it.

The man sensed it and tried to avoid him, but Zlatan still had his hand twisted up in the man’s belt. He jerked the man back and their mouths crushed together. The man didn’t taste quite as good as he looked or smelled, Zlatan noted. The kiss was—sweet, but stale.

Then a flood of ice poured into Zlatan’s legs. He slumped uncontrollably, clawing uselessly at the other man: his right hand caught a fold of the man’s doublet and that briefly held him, but the man was struggling as well now and he ripped himself away, leaving Zlatan to collapse onto the ground. The ice turned to fire and Zlatan swore, jerking in on himself, scratching at his calves as if he could tear out the pain that way. He tried to breathe—stared at the blades of grass before his face—watched them spiral at his eyes like arrows, and then withdraw at the last moment.

The pain slowly faded. He was left shaking and gasping, his clothes dirty where they weren’t stuck to him with a revolting chilly sweat. The first time he tried to sit up, his arm slid sharply out from under him and he cracked his chin on a rock. The second time he made it, and clumsily pushed himself up against a tree. He lifted his hand, looked at its tremble and then wiped it under his chin. Then he looked at it again. It was bloody.

Zlatan looked over it. The other man had fallen back against another tree. He’d kept to his feet but the back of his hand was pressed to his mouth, and over that his eyes were blazingly angry. His doublet was half-torn off his right arm, though as he slowly stood up, he absently pulled at it. The cloth stayed up on his shoulder for a single breath before beginning to slide down again.

He wasn’t wearing his belt. After a glance around, Zlatan spotted a glint in a small bush to his right. He rolled over onto his hands and knees, then stood carefully up. His legs hurt. Then they didn’t, but they felt like he’d run for miles and miles without a rest. He walked over to that bush with a straddled gait, like an old cripple, then took the chain off the bush. Then he tossed it to the other man, who caught it and then looked at it as if he wished he hadn’t.

“So where is it?” Zlatan rasped.

The man lowered his hand. His lips were pressed tightly together, and stayed that way as he jerked his head to the side.

“That far?” Zlatan brushed at his shirt, then gave up upon really looking at the stains there.

The man shook his head. He looked a moment longer at Zlatan, then dropped his gaze to his hands, which carefully wrapped up the chain till it could fit into one fist. “Go fifteen more steps, and then turn by the rock.”

“All right,” Zlatan said after a moment. He took a step, nearly fell as his knee threatened to give out, and then steadied himself against a tree. He gave himself another three breaths, then started again, and this time his legs held.

A surprised noise, maybe the beginnings of an exclamation, came from behind him. Zlatan looked over his shoulder, then chuckled as he waved a hand at the other man. “Tomorrow, I’ll see it tomorrow. I’m not in a hurry—are you?”

He didn’t get an answer. When he turned back, he saw that there was no one to answer him. Very well, Zlatan thought, and then he sighed as he realized how far it was back to the inn.

* * *

The nudge at his head came again and Zlatan closed his eyes, feeling his body sink into the mattress more with every moment that passed. Soon, maybe, he’d be one with the lumpy horsehair or whatever was stuffed inside it, and he wouldn’t have to bother with importuning felines. “Leave me alone, Sandro. ‘m tired.”

“Mraaow,” Sandro said. Refusing to be ignored, but oddly enough, sounding a bit less strident than usual. He put his forepaws on Zlatan’s shoulder, and then Zlatan felt a little wet whiff of air near his left nostril. “Mrrraow.”

Zlatan reached out to push him away, but once Zlatan had his hand on Sandro’s back, he just didn’t feel like it, or like anything else involving movement. The walk back had taken the whole rest of the day, and by the time he’d reached the inn, they’d already had the lanterns out and lit so they could all see him fall on his face in the mud.

No, he hadn’t done that, but it’d taken what little energy he’d had left to drag himself inside to his room. His legs still felt strangely numb, as if he’d been out in a winter storm and they hadn’t fully warmed up yet, and overall he wished he could have slept for the whole week. His stomach was wondering about dinner, but in a desultory way, not nearly enough to make him get up off the bed.

“_Maaaaaow_.” Sandro kept sniffing around Zlatan’s face, even with Zlatan’s hand on him.

“Left you water and food in the corner,” Zlatan mumbled. He squeezed shut his eyes, then worked up his other hand in stages. Off the bed to his hip, from his hip to his chest, and finally to his face, where he rubbed hard at his nose. Then he gritted his teeth, curled his fingers around Sandro, and picked up the cat into his lap as he sat up.

The world spun lazily for a moment, then settled into place with a nauseating skitter. Zlatan blinked hard against the dim light, absently petting Sandro while he waited for his eyes to adjust. Then he grimaced again and swung his legs off the bed. His hands were a little slow to obey him and Sandro half-wriggled, half-slid out of his grip. Zlatan belatedly looked down, but Sandro had already landed with a thump on the floor. He was fine, but he didn’t like that kind of treatment and scurried under the bed as Zlatan wearily went over to the corner.

Sandro came back out as Zlatan bent over the two saucers on the floor, then sidled up on the right to watch Zlatan run his finger around the chipped, dry rim of one. They didn’t belong to the inn; Zlatan had found them in a rubbish heap in some town that he’d already forgotten, and kept them because they traveled well in a saddle-bag. Both of them were empty, with even the chicken bones gone.

“You burying things like a little dog again?” Zlatan asked, looking at Sandro. Then he grinned as the cat turned sharply away, highly offended. He scratched the top of Sandro’s head, careful to pull away his hand before Sandro’s fangs could sink into it, before getting up.

The waste bucket in the corner was empty, he noted. So Sandro had probably spent most of the day outside. Should’ve worked out all his fussing then, with the rare chance to stretch his legs. And another look at Sandro’s slightly rounded belly told Zlatan the cat wasn’t as desperate for food as he made out; Sandro liked to play helpless spoiled brat, but Zlatan had seen him taking chickens nearly as big as him before. Hopefully this time Sandro had just eaten a dove or some other wild bird, since it’d be a bad time to get thrown out by an angry innkeeper.

Water, though…Zlatan felt at his waterskin, then poured out a bit into the hollow of his hand and sniffed it. He grimaced and jerked away his hand, then rubbed it dry against his hip as he went over to the window to empty out the skin. There was plenty of local water here, so no need to put up with leathery stale stuff.

He was still shaking out the last drops when he heard a knock at the door. Zlatan stiffened, then remembered the laundry. That, maybe. Or someone calling him for dinner. The inn hadn’t been all asleep when he’d come in, for all the lateness of the hour.

After waiting a moment so Sandro could hide, Zlatan opened the door and found Vieri instead of the maid standing there. Vieri didn’t look too pleased, and shoved the bucket and cloth-wrapped bundle he’d brought with him into Zlatan’s arms with not so much as a word. Then he leaned in the doorway and watched Zlatan struggle to keep his balance and not spill anything. He shifted again, folding his arms over his chest, as Zlatan finally maneuvered the bucket of water onto the floor.

The bundle smelled like food. When Zlatan picked the knots undone and peeked inside, he found a hunk of bread stuffed with cheese and some kind of spicy meat. He looked back up at Vieri, who snorted and turned away, but with one hand lingering on the jamb.

“You paid enough for the week, and then some extra,” Vieri said, walking off. “Why don’t you just stay here?”

“I am, aren’t I?” Zlatan dropped the food onto the chair and went back to the door, hanging out so he could see Vieri’s broad back disappearing into the shadows. “Hey. Thanks.”

Vieri paused long enough to look over his shoulder. His eyes were bitter and contemptuous. Then he snorted, and tossed his head as he continued down the hall.

“They should’ve sent Inzaghi, at least to talk to him,” Zlatan muttered, pulling himself back into the room. He closed the door, then gazed around the small space till his eyes landed on a black hump on the mattress. Then he chuckled dryly and retrieved the bucket, pouring out a little water into Sandro’s dish before he used the rest to clean himself up. “The hell does he know about reinforcing fortresses, anyway? Inzaghi couldn’t defend a fucking henhouse.”

“Mau,” Sandro agreed. He hopped down off the bed and zipped over to the water, where he noisily lapped up a drink while Zlatan rinsed off the dirt from his fall. Then he wandered back over and sat down by the bucket to watch Zlatan strip off his doublet and hose. The moment the cloth hit the floor, Sandro had climbed into the folds and was industriously sniffing away. “Mrraow.”

In only his shirt, Zlatan sat heavily down on the bed. Then he saw his dinner across the room, on the chair, and sighed as he got up and got that. He came back to the bed and sat again, then looked at Sandro as the cat jumped up to snuggle down beside him. “So, anything interesting?”

Sandro looked at him, then rolled over onto his back. The cat began to lick his left forepaw.

“Vieri just play innkeeper all day?” Zlatan asked, tearing off a bit of bread. He stuffed it into his mouth, then nodded; at least Vieri had a good cook. “He any good at it?”

After a last lick, Sandro lowered his paw and looked hard at Zlatan. Then he twisted over and began batting at part of Zlatan’s shirt-tail, about as disgusted a negative as he could give.

Zlatan grinned and rubbed Sandro’s head before pulling off his next bit of food. “Eh, well, even Inzaghi didn’t think there’d be much chance with him. Not my problem anyway.”

Sandro stopped playing around and put his head on Zlatan’s thigh, staring up at him. It looked like the cat was frowning, with the way the little vee of his mouth was pointing straight back towards his chest, and his ears were a bit flattened. Then he got up and stood on Zlatan’s leg. “Mrraow,” he said. He ducked under and inside Zlatan’s arm as Zlatan brought up a chunk of bread to his mouth, then pushed his forepaws up Zlatan’s ribs till he was standing with his nose nearly to Zlatan’s mouth. “_Maaaaow_.”

“I have to, all right?” Zlatan mechanically chewed the piece of food already in his mouth, then grimaced as he forced it down his unwilling throat. He looked at Sandro, then at the food in his lap. Then he pushed away the cat and got up, cursing dully under his breath. Behind him, Sandro was starting in on what sounded like a prolonged rant. “Oh, shut _up_.”

Silence suddenly fell. Zlatan paused, then shook his head and tossed the remainder of his dinner back onto the chair. He returned to the bed and swept his arm over it without looking, then flopped down when he didn’t hit anything. But he couldn’t find a comfortable position, especially with his legs: the bed was more than a little short, and he couldn’t seem to fold up his body without something starting to ache. Finally Zlatan just threw himself on his right side and shut his eyes, giving up.

“Mau,” Sandro said quietly, from somewhere by Zlatan’s head.

After a moment, Zlatan sighed and reached up. His fingertips touched fur that moved, wriggling into the gap between his arms. He lowered his hand and pulled Sandro down a bit so the cat wasn’t blocking his nose. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “It’ll work. You know me.”

Sandro didn’t say anything back, just shifted uneasily against Zlatan’s forearm.

* * *

Zlatan was at the rock, a big rough piece of granite that was wholly out of place in these flint and slate hills, when he heard a twig snap behind him. He tensed, then snorted and turned around. “Well, good morning.”

“It’s the afternoon,” said the man. His voice was still too pretty to be curt, but there was a distinct lack of friendliness compared to yesterday. He’d changed his clothes as well, to a red doublet with alternating black and white slashes in the sleeves, and he’d left off most of the gold jewelry.

“My mistake,” Zlatan replied after a moment. He turned back to the rock, looking at the jagged edges. It had a small flat spot on the top and he tried putting his right boot on there, only to have the heel twist under him when he started to shift his weight. His boot slipped off and he had to take a hasty step backwards, but then he caught himself. He looked over his shoulder again, then grinned as he leaned over the rock. Now there was a streak of mud on it. “It’s hard to tell in here, with the trees and all.”

To that he received no reply. He hadn’t expected to, but for form’s sake, Zlatan rolled his shoulders as he flicked off the mud. Then he sat down, turning again as he did so he ended up facing the other man. Cool eyes watched him stretch out his legs, then lean over them and stretch his back and arms as well. Zlatan listened to two or three pops in his spine before sitting up. He glanced at the man, fumbling around at his waist, and then looked down to concentrate on the knotted ends of the bundle that held his lunch.

Halfway through his meal, another twig snapped. Zlatan looked out, at bare feet, and then up to see the two halves of the stick held between the man’s two hands. Then he grinned with half his mouth, and stuffed another piece of food into the other half. He scooted over a bit on the rock before nodding to his side. “You want to sit? It’s a long walk to out here.”

The man opened his fingers and let the twig fragments drop out of them. Then he put down his arms, put his hands behind his back, and took another step forward. His clothes were impeccable but his feet were stained and there was black dirt under his toenails. “Aren’t you going to the spring?”

“I thought I’d eat first,” Zlatan said. Then he ducked his head, working hard at the wad of food in his mouth. He swallowed it and looked up again. “Besides, you didn’t tell me where it was.”

It looked like there were scratches on the man’s soles as well. Hair-thin red lines, barely glimpsed when he lifted his feet—and then he planted them firmly down, so Zlatan had a moment before the man bowed low, craning his head to look at Zlatan. His brows were arched high. “But I did,” he said, confused in a vague, calmly certain way. Nobleman wondering why his servants occasionally took ill and inconvenienced him. “I told you—”

“Turn at the rock.” Then Zlatan smiled, with his teeth showing. He sat there and watched things flicker just behind the smooth glass of the man’s eyes, then exhaled shortly as he roughly wrapped up his food again. “Which way?”

“Where the water is.” The man straightened up. His lips pressed together before he said each word. “You can hear that, surely.”

Zlatan tilted his head, though he’d been hearing that gurgling for quite a while now. Then he nodded as he got up, and took the two strides necessary to close the gap between them. The other man didn’t flinch; he moved with such deliberation as he turned his head away and down to the left that that couldn’t be called flinching. Maybe a snub, but as Zlatan looked at the side of his neck, the muscles twitched in a faint tremor, then stilled.

“Yes,” Zlatan said. He wiped his mouth, then rubbed his hands on his hips. Then he reached up and unbuckled his sword. The clanking brought the man’s head around and he looked on as Zlatan wrapped his sword-belt around one arm, so he could still carry the sword’s tip clear of the ground. “But still. I want you to show me.”

The man’s eyes traveled up Zlatan’s chest and neck to Zlatan’s eyes. The corners of his mouth thinned, then relaxed. They might even have made a slight upward movement before he pivoted, smoothly sudden like a bird of prey striking down out of the sky. His right hand swung out and came up before Zlatan, its fingers loosely curled inwards. They straightened away from Zlatan’s hand when he put it down on them, then slowly closed over his fingers.

He led Zlatan around the rock and then behind it, away from the trail. At first it also sounded as if they were moving away from the water, for the gurgling faded till Zlatan had to concentrate with all his might to hear it. But then it abruptly resurged. A moment later the trees parted as if they were curtains someone had drawn back, and they were standing in a sunny glade. The grass underfoot was lush and fragrant, and for the first time Zlatan saw a few flowers: tiny white and red stars that dotted the banks of the sluggish stream that wended its way through the middle of the clearing. It came out of the dark woods and then vanished back into it.

Zlatan’s arm dropped and he started, then chuckled and looked at the other man, who had casually put his hand behind his back again, as if he hadn’t just jerked it free of Zlatan’s grip. “Nice spring.”

The man inclined his head to the right, as if considering something, then straightened it. “Thank you.”

But still no birds or other animals, Zlatan noted as he gazed around. Not even a deer-track. Either side of the banks was unmarked, as if no living thing ever came this way. As far as Zlatan could see, at least: where the clearing ended, the shadows came down as sharply as a knife.

He heard a stirring beside him and glanced at the man again, then let out his breath in a loud burst. “Well, since this is the first time I’ve seen it,” Zlatan amended. “You get bored, since you see it so much?”

“What do you mean?” the man asked, a moment late. He’d already showed a trace of irritation.

“I don’t know.” Zlatan ran his fingers through his hair, then did so again when the first time sent a few strands into his eyes. Then he bent down and unstrapped the flask from his hip, unscrewing the cap with the fingers with one hand, since he still had his sword in the other. He took a good long drink from the flask before looking again at the other man. “How long have you been here?”

The man stared at him, face not merely emotionless but utterly frigid. Then he looked away from Zlatan and out at the stream. A lock of his hair slipped out from behind his ear and veiled his eyes. “Don’t you want a drink?” he inquired. “Fresh water?”

“I’m fine. But thanks for asking,” Zlatan said, capping his flask. He tried to put it back on his hip, but couldn’t do the buckle with only one hand. Finally he had to lean his sword against a tree behind him, but as he was pulling a strap over the flask’s shoulder, he heard a grating noise.

Zlatan swerved out of the way, just as the other man glanced down. They watched the sword fall between them. It bounced once on the springy turf, then turned over once before the shape of the hilt stopped it from rolling. The edge of the hand-guard was barely a finger’s-width from the man’s toes.

The man hadn’t moved. No emotion marred the smooth, handsome planes of his face. He regarded the sword with a kind of detached recognition, like someone idly identifying a passing songbird. Then he shifted to look at the stream again.

“I guess it might be a nice place to stay,” Zlatan remarked. He bent down and hooked his finger through the loop of the hilt, then pulled up the sword till he could get the belt. After untangling that, he slung the sword over his back, but didn’t tighten the belt. “Or maybe not. I don’t really stay in one place long enough to know, but I’m told it can be like torture, if you’re not the type who wants to stay.”

He looked at the stream too, though a sudden, sharp rustle came from behind him. It really was a pretty place, like out of a tapestry. Even if it was too damn quiet.

Zlatan opened his mouth, but the man spoke first. “Why are you here, if you don’t want a drink?”

“I never said I didn’t want one,” Zlatan replied, turning around. He watched the silken, blank veneer spread over the man’s eyes again. “I’m just not thirsty right now. You always in such a hurry? I mean, I can’t see any reason why you would be, since you’re still going to be here anyway.”

The eyes stayed perfectly calm, but a vein in the man’s throat pulsed into prominence. Just once—then he was all smooth and perfect again. He was no youth, but his jaw and cheeks looked as if a razor had never needed to touch them.

“Anyway, I’m not. For once.” Zlatan grinned humorlessly, rolling back his shoulders. He let his arms swing with it and his hand brushed against the man’s sleeve as it moved through the air. Softer silk than Zlatan had ever felt, softer even than the hem of a king’s robe. “It’s odd, having some time for myself all of a sudden. I don’t know what to do with it, almost—I don’t know, you have any ideas? You must have a lot of time on your hands.”

“Yes,” the man said. His voice had thickened with anger, and when Zlatan looked at him, the man couldn’t meet Zlatan’s eyes. He ducked his head and touched his fingers to the bridge of his nose, then turned away. The shoulder nearest to Zlatan moved slightly back, then forward again, and the shadows at the edge of the glade crept towards them. “Then what shall—”

“What’s your name?” Zlatan asked. Then he grabbed a handful of the man’s sleeve, as the man was looking back in astonishment at him. He stepped into the space before the man, twisting his fingers in the slippery silk so the man couldn’t back away as Zlatan leaned down.

Their lips barely grazed when the man struck out at Zlatan, driving the heel of his hand into Zlatan’s shoulder. It forced Zlatan onto his trailing foot, but threw them both off-balance and Zlatan was probably more used to that. At any rate, Zlatan managed to swing with it; the other man didn’t. They stumbled up into a tree, and the curve of the trunk pushed the man’s head down towards Zlatan, who made good on this kiss. The man’s lips struggled furiously under Zlatan’s own, then dragged apart so Zlatan was pressing his mouth into the man’s clenched teeth.

Zlatan’s body went icy from his shoulders downwards. It felt like someone had diverted a half-frozen river onto him. The shock punched him back, and then he was foolish enough to gasp for air, and all the ice turned to fire. The world rolled upwards—no, his _eyes_ rolled up and at the same time he had to be falling, because the man’s eyes were rapidly shrinking.

Then Zlatan came to a jarring halt. Those eyes bloomed hugely, whirled impossibly around and finally settled back to a normal size and position in an ashen face. The pain was still working its way through Zlatan, but he could feel hands under his arms, a breastbone under his chin, knees bumping his stomach. Air tore in and out of his mouth; he closed his eyes, then opened them when the darkness proved far more painful. It was bright in the clearing, almost too bright, and then the man’s eyes were brighter still.

Something shifted under Zlatan’s foot, making it slip. He hissed and jerked about his foot, then felt his knee sink into the ground. The man above him bent a little to accommodate the change of position, but didn’t remove his hands from Zlatan. He stood there, braced against the tree, staring down at Zlatan who was slumped against him. He looked as surprised about it as Zlatan.

He probably didn’t know how surprised he was, Zlatan guessed. Zlatan sucked in a last breath, then tried to move his hand. He managed to get it onto the other man’s bicep and the man glanced sharply at it, confirming Zlatan’s guess. Still, he didn’t throw Zlatan to the ground.

“I’m Zlatan,” Zlatan said. The effort made his throat close on him, and for a moment it was all he could do to force the air through his nose. Then he gritted his teeth and got his other hand over the man’s shoulder. His legs spasmed and he had to wait another moment. He unclenched his teeth, then opened and shut his mouth a few times against the stiffness of his jaw. “Fuck. This really hurts.”

The man’s brows drew together, but he didn’t speak. His eyes ran over Zlatan’s face from forehead to chin, then returned to Zlatan’s eyes.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” Then Zlatan dug his toes into the ground and heaved upwards. He teetered wildly, lurched backwards and to the side, then somehow steadied, albeit with his arms flung out as if he was trying to embrace the whole world. That made him laugh, which robbed him of precious breath and made him stand there like a scarecrow for a few more moments. Then he managed to lower his arms. He was still shaking, and thinking about the long walk back to the inn was making his knees wobble even more. “Fuck. Well, that was fun.”

The man might have made a noise. It might even have been incredulous. But he was still leaning against the tree when Zlatan looked at him, with his lips pressed tightly together. His clothes were disheveled, and a longish ringlet had fallen in front of his right eye.

“Guess you didn’t think so,” Zlatan muttered. He needed a moment to reorient himself, but then he figured out from which direction they’d come and gingerly turned himself that way.

“Why did you ask me?”

Zlatan hesitated, then sighed and edged himself back around. At least the look was worth the pain of turning: the man had come off the tree and was within a pace of Zlatan, gazing up with strange eyes. Hurt eyes, almost. Like he regretted what that had done to Zlatan.

“Ask you what? Where the spring was?” Zlatan rasped.

“No, ask me—ask me what my name was,” the man said. He’d faltered in the middle and then not quite recovered. His face was about the most animated Zlatan had seen since they’d met, with the wrinkled brow and lips pursed around an unasked question, the strangely remorseful eyes. “Why?”

He still had that bit of hair in his eyes. Zlatan reached out, meaning to flick it away, but he still didn’t have complete control of himself yet and his hand missed its mark. It went farther back, brushing the side of the man’s face; Zlatan hurriedly withdrew his hand, for that seemed a bit nearer than he liked, or had wanted to do.

“Because I like to know people,” Zlatan said. He tried to shrug, but overdid the motion and it slung him halfway back around. Very well, he thought, it was about time to be getting back anyway. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * *

Too damn long of a walk, Zlatan thought as he toppled over. He was so tired that he didn’t think he did himself a fresh injury, other than garnering more stains on his clothes and his dignity, but he couldn’t even turn his head to get his nose out of the dirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the inn. Maybe somebody would notice the man lying on the edge of the woods and come out to get him.

Just as he finished that thought, something came pattering up to him and Zlatan grimaced, expecting a curious chicken or maybe a pig. But then a little black head came into view, and opened a big red mouth. “Maaaaow!”

“Hey, Sandro,” Zlatan mumbled. He hitched his body, getting ready to roll over, and then had to give up just on that. Too tired. “Give me a couple minutes.”

“Mau! Maow!” Sandro scrambled back and forth around Zlatan’s head, his fur bristled up and his paws kicking up more dirt into Zlatan’s eyes and nose. Then he stopped, but only so he could pat frantically at Zlatan’s ear and hand. “Mau!”

He was so damn _loud_ for such a small thing, Zlatan irritably thought. Then continued to think of it, and it hurt but Zlatan shoved himself over onto one arm. He had to stop and breathe, and Sandro kept yowling and jumping around like he had a fever. Zlatan hissed at him, then tried to snatch at Sandro when the cat paid no attention. There were footsteps coming now, probably attracted by Sandro’s ruckus, and Zlatan swore harshly and grabbed at the cat again.

This time, he got hold of Sandro’s leg and dragged the cat towards him. Sandro was still carrying on like somebody had been murdered, but he didn’t struggle and Zlatan got him bundled into his arms just as somebody coughed overhead. Zlatan stiffened, then made certain he had a firm grip on Sandro before looking up.

It was Vieri. He had a lantern with him, and as Zlatan squinted at the sudden brightness, raised it so its yellow circle dipped to encompass Sandro as well. Of course Sandro shut up then.

“I have a pet cat,” Zlatan finally said. Sandro squirmed and Zlatan suppressed a tinge of irritation as he gripped Sandro tighter. Of all the times to take offense to being called that, now wasn’t a good one and Sandro had better know it. “If you fucking do anything to him, I’ll cut your throat.”

“You look like you couldn’t even stomp a worm.” Vieri shifted the lantern to his other hand, then turned towards the inn. Then he put a hand down to Zlatan. He waited a moment, then let out an impatient growl as he seized Zlatan’s elbow. He hauled Zlatan to his feet with a clean jerk, a single grunt the only evidence of the effort that that took. Then he slid his arm around Zlatan’s waist, and began to drag them towards the inn.

* * *

After draining his mug, Vieri thumped it down on the table and pushed it away from him, his upper lip curling. He let his arm stay stretched out for a moment, then pulled it in to fold under himself against the table. “I thought I’d been seeing something around the place. Wasn’t missing any chickens, though.”

“Sandro likes his cooked. Preferably with cream afterwards. Picky bastard.” Zlatan spared a glance for the cat dozing in his lap, then clumsily picked a bit of sausage off his plate. He worked it into his mouth, then chewed it just till it was soft enough so that he could swallow it without gagging. His appetite hadn’t returned since they’d first arrived, but if he wanted to walk back to his room, he needed to get something in his stomach. “He acts like he was brought up at court, but he’s a stray. Some sons of bitches in training had a noose around his neck. Little assholes were going to hang him, just because they were bored.”

Vieri looked unimpressed, or maybe he just didn’t care. He only seemed to have about three or four emotions. “So what’d you do with the brats?”

“Gave them a good kicking back to their parents. Back then, anyway.” The porridge went down a lot easier than the sausage, for all that it was unpleasantly cold, so Zlatan switched to that. Then he had to stop and breathe hard; the world had suddenly, unexpectedly faded on him. A great roaring came into his ears, then slowly went away. He looked up but Vieri’s expression hadn’t changed. “About ten years later, they grew up, and were doing the same thing, only with peasants. I…let’s see, I gutted one, stuck a dagger in another’s balls, and cut off the head of the third. They were fighting on the wrong side, anyway.”

That wrinkled Vieri’s brow. He leaned over the table, then sat back hard so his bench rattled a bit. “How old are you?”

“Old enough,” Zlatan muttered. Then he looked down, feeling a shift in his lap. But Sandro was only stretching, throwing a leg out over Zlatan’s knee. After a moment, Zlatan reached down and gently nudged Sandro up so the cat wasn’t quite as close to falling off. Then he picked up his spoon again. He glanced at Vieri, then grinned at the man’s irritated expression. “Let’s just say that I have problems.”

Vieri flicked a gaze at the fireplace, where the flames were beginning to gutter. Then he got up and went over there to put on another log. When he came back, he looked a bit more thoughtful than annoyed. “How old’s the cat?”

“I don’t know. He was full-grown when I got him. He’s been all right, though. You wouldn’t know it’s been ten years—he’s just as whiny as ever.” Zlatan finished off a spoonful of porridge, then looked at how much was left. Then he grimaced and pushed it away. He looked up at Vieri. “I’m not a witch.”

“I know. I’ve known a few of those, real ones,” Vieri remarked, rather casually. He folded his arms over the table again. “Why are you getting water from the spring?”

“You know why. You should, anyway. Even hiding out here.” Then Sandro stirred again, so Zlatan didn’t have a chance to see Vieri’s reaction. He got his hands down and just caught Sandro before the cat flopped himself off Zlatan’s knees.

When he looked up, Vieri was sneering at him. Then the man’s lip peeled back even more, so it was angrier than a sneer. “You don’t know what I’m doing here, so don’t guess.”

“Well, leave me and my business alone,” Zlatan snapped, getting up.

He went around the table and two steps beyond, and then Vieri spoke: “You want me to watch him tomorrow?”

Zlatan half-turned, absently plumping Sandro up so the cat could look as well. “What?”

“Your cat,” Vieri said. It took him a moment to explain that; he seemed a little embarrassed. “Watch him for you. I’m not much for pets, but I can put some chicken bones in your room. You paid enough.”

“Nyaow,” Sandro said indignantly. He bumped his head hard against the side of Zlatan’s jaw. “Nyaoooow.”

“He bothering you or something? I thought you said he was just running around.” Zlatan ran his hand up and down Sandro’s back, trying to soothe him. “Sandro can take care of himself.”

Vieri shrugged, but kept looking at Zlatan. He felt sorry for Zlatan, that was what was the look in his eyes. “But I can watch him for a bit. Not forever, but…”

“Inzaghi doesn’t like him much either,” Zlatan finally said. Then he smiled, and he did mean it. Much as the pity was stupid, and a little arrogant, he had to appreciate it when a man made himself as uncomfortable as Vieri was right now. “No, he’ll be fine. Just leave him be.”

A cloud went over Vieri’s face. He opened his mouth, and even let a little raspy air out of it, but then he abruptly turned away. He began to pick up Zlatan’s dishes. “Fine.”

“Mau,” Sandro said smugly. Then he twisted to look at Zlatan, and if a cat’s face could soften, his did. He started pawing at Zlatan’s shoulder, fretting again. “Mrrrrraow.”

Zlatan bit his lip, then turned his head away and went into the hall. Like he needed even a _cat’s_ pity, much less worry, he thought. But he didn’t say anything.

* * *

Sandro didn’t sleep much, and didn’t let Zlatan sleep much either, what with his constant squirming around. He kept waking up and walking all over Zlatan, miaowing to himself, and when Zlatan tried to make him get off, Sandro hissed like a snake. Zlatan could have used the rest, since his bones hurt enough without adding fatigue to that, but he let Sandro be.

He might as well not have bothered. In the morning Sandro was up with a bounce, and then stuck so close to Zlatan that Zlatan lost count of the number of times he’d nearly stepped on the cat. Normally that would put Sandro into a deep sulk, but he just ignored it and kept nudging at Zlatan’s legs till Zlatan shut the window and locked it. Then Sandro gave up on pleading and just reared up to hook his claws into Zlatan’s trousers.

“Oh, for—not now,” Zlatan snapped, pushing the cat off. Then he went for the door, but Sandro was faster.

The cat got in front of the door and planted himself down, staring up at Zlatan with huge begging eyes. Frustrated, Zlatan raised his hand and Sandro stiffened, but didn’t move.

Zlatan lowered his hand and dragged it through his hair. He chewed on his lip, then sighed and knelt down, holding out both hands. After a moment’s hesitation, Sandro came up into them. “Mauow,” he said pathetically. “Mau.”

“I know, but—”

And then Zlatan threw Sandro onto the bed. He twisted back around, lunged for the door and got out just as he heard a wild squalling start up. Then the door banged into its frame, briefly cutting off the noise. But only for a moment, and the wood didn’t muffle the yowling as much as Zlatan would’ve liked.

He rubbed his hand over his face, then turned away, only to have to grab his knees as a dizzy spell came onto him. Zlatan breathed in, out, in, and then it passed. He stood up and absently wiped at his brow, only to tense when he realized how much cold sweat had come off with his fingers. Then he bit off a snarl and threw himself down the hall.

* * *

The man was kneeling at the side of the stream. The mud didn’t seem to concern him, though his clothes were snowy-white today. So white they overwhelmed the bits of red and black accents, and there was no gold at all to relieve the brilliance of it. Against the white hose, the man’s hands looked almost as dark as the shadows to Zlatan’s back.

He looked up as Zlatan warily approached. His fingers curled a little against his knees, then swept off to the side as he stood in one fluid motion. Black mud matted up his shins and trailed onto his thighs, as if he’d been dragging his hands over his legs. He still had a little mud under his nails, and a few clumps decorated his toes in a parody of jewels.

“You can’t drink from here,” the man abruptly said.

Zlatan stopped a few feet short. He looked around, then reached over his shoulder, only to grab the joint when something pulled painfully in his back. He breathed a little more slowly, then tried again, and this time he got off his sword. He laid that down in the grass. “I know that.”

“You’ll die if you touch it, and the spring will dry up with you,” the man continued, as if he hadn’t heard Zlatan. He stared earnestly at Zlatan, imploring to be understood. His hair was a little disarrayed compared to the previous days, with the odd lock falling out of order with the otherwise neat waves. “You should leave.”

“I can’t,” Zlatan sighed. He stood up from his sword and came over to the man, then bent over to look into the stream. “Anyway, I’m not going to touch the water.”

The man fell silent. He watched Zlatan closely as Zlatan rubbed his nose, then reached down for his hip flask. When Zlatan unscrewed the top, the man inhaled sharply, only to frown when Zlatan merely put the flask to his mouth.

After finishing off the last of his water, Zlatan inverted the flask and gave it a good shake over the ground to his other side. Then he held it up to the light and peered into it as best he could: it didn’t seem as if anything was left in there, so he stuck the flask under his arm. He looked at the other man.

After a while, comprehension crept into the man’s eyes. The planes of his face hardened, but it wasn’t like the impenetrable calm with which he’d first greeted Zlatan. He looked away, at the stream, and his hand moved in a gesture that was small but full of rage. Then he exhaled roughly and stepped away from Zlatan. “No. I won’t.”

“What? Why not?” Zlatan jerked his head at the clearing. “You want to stay here forever?”

Nothing stirred in the man’s face. “You’re not here for me,” he said flatly.

“That’s true,” Zlatan said after a moment. He took the flask from under his arm and fiddled with the cap, twisting it about on its string till he’d knotted it around the rim. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.” He cocked a brow at the other man, grinning. “The books didn’t say anything about a guardian.”

The man parted his lips as if to speak, but then jerked his head away. He put up his hand and drew its fingers through his hair, his mouth twisting and untwisting.

“But I know a few things. I can guess about you, now that I know about you.” Shrugging, Zlatan bent down. He paused when he heard a step towards him, then slowly extended his arm. He put the flask down, but it fell over as he began to straighten, so he bent again and pushed a few rocks up around it to hold it upright. Then he stood up. “Get me the water.”

The man shook his head. He still had his fingers in his hair, and as his head pulled from it, a few strands came away. They drifted in the air, gleaming in the bright sunlight.

Zlatan stared at him. Then, shaking his own head, he went over and took the man by the arm. If the man had wanted to, he could have moved away, but he waited for Zlatan to do it. “Get—”

“Paolo,” the man said. His voice only shook at the end, and then only the barest amount. He kept stiff in Zlatan’s grip.

For a moment Zlatan wanted to hit him. Then the man twisted a little, just enough to signal his discomfort with Zlatan’s hold on him, and instead Zlatan hissed a breath out between his teeth. He looked away, then loosened his hand but pulled Paolo up against him. “Why’d you tell me that?”

Paolo yielded as much as he needed to in order to retain his balance and no more. His eyes were smoothing over, confident again. “Because you asked.”

“I did,” Zlatan said after a moment. He raised his hand and Paolo’s eyes flicked to it, then came back to Zlatan’s face. They stayed on it as Zlatan slowly touched his fore- and middle finger to the left side of Paolo’s brow, then drew them lightly down the cheekbone, the cheek, the jaw. “Paolo.” He rolled his tongue around the vowels as the air chilled around them. “_I ask you_. Get me the water.”

The other man realized his mistake too late. He yanked his head away from Zlatan and wrenched at his arm, then abruptly slumped to press his face into Zlatan’s shoulder. His hands grasped at Zlatan’s sides, kneading them hard as he tried to resist the compulsion Zlatan had just laid on him. Then he threw back his head, and he was shaking but there was a good bit of anger mixed into the sorrow in his eyes. “I don’t want to,” he whispered. “You’ll die.”

“I know, but I need you to get it.” Zlatan laughed shortly, and then laughed more fully at the uncomprehending but furious look Paolo gave him. “Well, you wanted me dead anyway.”

“No.” Paolo shook his head violently, then shuddered just as hard, bending his head to grind its top into Zlatan’s shoulder. He gasped, his hands clawing at Zlatan’s sides. “Not after the first day. No.”

Suddenly Zlatan was angry as well. It was going to be hard enough, and here the man was, making it harder. Him and Sandro and—Zlatan clamped his hands over Paolo’s arms and dragged the other man back, then craned down when Paolo won’t look at him. “Don’t make me say more than I have to,” he hissed. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but I need that water. I’ll hurt you if I have to—it already hurts and you know that. Just get it for me and it’ll st—”

“You have to kiss me again,” Paolo said in a rush. Then he twisted, his lips pulling back from his clenched teeth in an agonized snarl. He shook his head again, then tried to duck from Zlatan’s hands.

Zlatan had had enough. Enough of this, enough of waiting. He wanted to get it over with and done.

Paolo turned abruptly to the left and Zlatan let him go, then seized Paolo’s hair when the other man stumbled, thrown by the sudden lack of restraint. He pulled back Paolo’s head and grasped the man’s jaw, holding it in place, then brought down his mouth.

Their lips barely touched before Zlatan was writhing, not screaming only because his jaw had locked with the pain. He saw the sky darken, felt his spine bend back till he couldn’t stand anymore. He was out before his head hit the ground.

* * *

Coming back was always awful. The taste in his mouth was worse than any hangover Zlatan had ever had, and no matter how it’d happened, Zlatan always ended up with every single joint cricked. And he couldn’t even breathe.

Instinct made him turn his head. Then he could breathe, no dirt in his nose and mouth, but his neck was screaming. He groaned and heard somebody catch their breath. Then there was a shaking hand on his back, covering one of his shoulderblades. It dithered there, then slid under his shoulder and helped him turn over.

Paolo was squatting over him, doublet torn open and smeared with mud, eyes wide with disbelief. Behind him was the night sky—at least Zlatan was spared having the sun burn into his eyes, with all the…Zlatan closed his eyes, then set his teeth and made himself sit up. The pain made the breath burst from him, but he only allowed himself one inhale before he looked at Paolo. “Did you get it?”

Sudden anger replaced the disbelief, and then Paolo’s eyes were as smooth as fine glass. He half-turned, feeling around on the ground, then turned back with Zlatan’s flask in his hand. Zlatan reached for it, but the moment Paolo let go, the weight of it dropped Zlatan’s arm as if it was made of lead. At least Paolo had gotten the damn water.

They both considered Zlatan’s hand, and then Paolo took back the flask. He pivoted on his toes, then rolled Zlatan slightly over so he could strap it back into its holster at Zlatan’s hip.

“Thank you,” Zlatan said. He looked at the sky again, then grimaced and carefully worked his feet under him. Then he had to stop again. “Fuck.”

“You were dead,” Paolo said calmly.

Zlatan glanced at him, then jerked himself up onto his feet and stood before he could think about it. Then the pain caught up with him and Zlatan almost fell again.

The reason he didn’t waited for him to catch his breath, then slung Zlatan’s arm over his shoulders and put his arm around Zlatan’s waist. Under all those fine clothes, Paolo had some muscle; he seemed not to make an effort, and even his breathing remained regular.

“I know.” His stomach hurt, Zlatan idly thought. Fine time for his appetite to come back. “It happens sometimes with me.”

Paolo looked sharply at him, exhaling long and slow and harsh. It seemed as if the other man was going to ask a question, but then Paolo turned away. He helped Zlatan go a few steps, then bent down to retrieve something else: Zlatan’s sword.

“You’re still here,” Zlatan remarked.

They slowly made their way to the edge of the clearing. The grass underfoot crunched, as if it was all dried up. It was dark but when Zlatan glanced back over Paolo’s head, he could just glimpse a tumble of rocks where the spring had been.

“Were you at the inn?” Paolo paused and tossed Zlatan’s sword-belt over his shoulder, then reached up to grab Zlatan’s wrist. He pulled Zlatan’s hand down, then pressed it to his breast as they walked. “I can carry you.”

Zlatan looked at the top of the man’s head, then snorted to himself. Maybe. Maybe not. One thing he was not, however, was about to fall asleep. They’d walk together.

* * *

Every window of the inn was ablaze with light when they finally made it out of the woods. Something cracked under Zlatan’s foot and the back door opened, briefly revealing the silhouette of a woman. Then she disappeared, but the door remained open; Paolo swung them around to head for that.

They just about got up to the step when Vieri appeared in the doorway, with a ferocious squalling ball of black fur in his hands. Then the cat squirmed free.

Habit made Zlatan get up his hands, and he caught Sandro just as his knees gave out. He felt hands pulling at his shirt, trying to slow his fall, and maybe if he’d worked at it as well, it would have worked. But instead he tried to get hold of Sandro, who wailed and thrashed like a landed fish, so Zlatan ended up slumped against the jamb. “Ssh! Ssh!”

“That doesn’t work,” Vieri said.

Sandro shut up. Against the backdrop of Vieri’s glowering, Sandro planted his forepaws on Zlatan’s chest and stared up at Zlatan with huge eyes, glowing faintly green because of the dark. Then he dropped forward, burying his head against Zlatan’s neck. Zlatan scraped his lip through his teeth, then shifted his hands so he could scratch the back of Sandro’s head. “I told you.”

The cat pushed himself back again. This time his eyes were narrow and his ears were flat. “Nyaow!” he said sharply, and with one twist he was out of Zlatan’s arms. When Zlatan turned on his hip and reached out, Sandro skittered back so he was peering at Zlatan through Vieri’s legs. “Nyaow.”

Zlatan put his hand on the floor instead, and used his other hand to grab the jamb so he could haul himself up. “Well, I _did_. And you should know by now to just trust me, fleabag.”

Sandro turned around and stalked off, indignantly waving his tail. Then he had to scamper back to avoid the maid rushing up, broom in hand. She started to ask a question, but clammed up upon seeing…Paolo and Vieri looking at each other, the one calmly expectant and the other much too grumpy for unfamiliarity.

“I’ll have dinner now,” Zlatan said to the maid. He scooped up Sandro again, absently nuzzling the top of the cat’s head, and then grinned when he felt Sandro squirming, for all that it was imperiling his dangerously shaky balance. Then he wandered up to the other two men. “Hey.”

Vieri turned to look at him, brows slightly cocked. “You have problems.”

“Well, I think we all do.” Zlatan shrugged, then stumbled as his left ankle wobbled. Fortunately he fell against the wall, which let him stay up to watch Vieri abruptly turn and stalk off.

The other man slowed a little as the woman whispered to him, then answered her with an impatient flip of the hand. She didn’t seem to like that, pressing her lips tightly together, but let it go and briskly started off for the kitchens. “Do you want it brought up to your room?”

It was a moment before Zlatan realized she was speaking to him. “Yes, thanks,” he called after her.

A nearby thud made Zlatan start, but it was only Paolo closing the door. Paolo paused, his hand against the door, then came up to Zlatan. Even on the creaky floorboards, he didn’t make a sound—Zlatan looked down, then frowned when he saw the man’s feet were hidden in fine boots. High-heeled, with spurs for horse-riding.

A whiff of breath against his face, clean and sweet like crushed grass, made Zlatan look up. He found Paolo standing right up against him, not quite touching but so near that the heat of the man’s body just grazed the back of Zlatan’s hand. Paolo was looking up at him, gaze steady and level, mouth a little open so Zlatan could see the tips of the man’s teeth and the tongue arching up just behind those.

“Raow,” Sandro said, twisting hard. He nearly fell out of Zlatan’s arms, but when Zlatan glanced down, the cat was staring at Paolo.

Paolo was looking back, but a little differently than he’d been regarding Zlatan a moment ago. His lips were closed, but curved in a slight smile, and he tilted his head almost as much in amusement as to get a better look at Sandro. “You have a cat?”

“This is Sandro,” Zlatan said after a moment. He bumped Sandro in his arms, getting a better grip, but Sandro didn’t look at him. Those furry ears were well flattened back as well, so Zlatan tried to stretch his fingers to block the cat’s claws. Sometimes Sandro could be odd about people—well, then again, Paolo was obviously different. “Had him for ten years so far. He’s good company.”

Sandro strained out, no matter how Zlatan tried to bundle him back. Then Paolo, still with that odd smile on his face, lifted a hand towards Sandro’s head and Sandro jerked back, hissing. His fur turned into tiny needles against Zlatan’s hands. He arched his back as much as he could, his lips twitching with the effort of pulling them back so far. The light glinted on his small—but very sharp, Zlatan knew—fangs.

“I don’t think—” Zlatan started.

Paolo looked up and drew back his hand as part of the same motion. His smile slipped off his face the way a shadow changed shape when the light moved. Then he nodded and turned away, looking at the rest of the room. He put up a hand to brush some hair behind his ear, but looked back at Zlatan halfway through that, his fingers still tangled in the strands. “Where’s your room?”

He sounded much like on the first day, soft and demurely inviting, but those eyes of his looked like he meant it this time. Zlatan stood there, trying to think, then shook his head. He told his legs to hold up and lurched past Paolo, reflexively squeezing Sandro when the cat tried to twist about to hiss at the other man. “_Why_ are you still here? You don’t go with the water, do you? That’s usually not how it works.”

“No, I don’t,” Paolo said equably. When Zlatan looked back, the other man was following him about a pace behind. Then Paolo eased up to abreast of Zlatan without any perceptible effort. “I’m here because of you.”

“I guess you could say that,” Zlatan snorted. He did note that Paolo had come on the same side as Sandro’s tail, which suddenly lashed madly like Sandro was a dog. It even hurt to roll his eyes, Zlatan found, so instead he sighed and staggered deliberately into the wall. He grimaced against the bruising impact, then braced his shoulder and used it to help himself down the hall. “No, really.”

They came to Zlatan’s room, and Zlatan couldn’t get at his key because Sandro wouldn’t move out of the way. The cat was too busy wriggling and making little snarling noises at Paolo, of course. Zlatan suppressed a few choice words and put back his head, resting his forehead against the door’s lintel as he looked at Paolo. “Your kind’s a little obsessive, aren’t they? And all about the rules. I don’t really follow rules.”

Paolo gazed imperturbably back. The dim light came sideways through his eyes so they glowed like foxfire, beautiful but eerie. He still had his muddy finery on; he moved his hand a little and his torn collar gaped further, showing the spare lean lines of his chest and belly. Then he shrugged and sighed, as if it wasn’t anything of his that was at fault. The shrug brought down his head, letting strands of his hair slide over his cheekbones so the light touched on how silky they looked. Then he straightened up, and somehow that swayed him nearer to Zlatan. He looked up, his head going back and his shoulders lowering so the length of his throat was enhanced.

“What are you?” he asked. “You’re not one of us.”

Zlatan stiffened, then laughed in Paolo’s face. Then he had another chuckle at the faint trace of discomfit that passed over Paolo; the man hadn’t intended that reaction, but well, he wouldn’t know. It was a good enough attempt at a charming. “If I had a gold coin for every time someone told me that…no, I’m not. I’m different. You wouldn’t know what I am.”

Sandro hissed, but Paolo barely moved. He still had his eyes on Zlatan and they recovered their poise far too quickly for Zlatan’s taste. “Then I’d like to find out,” he said simply. He was matter-of-fact and yet something about his self-possession itched under Zlatan’s skin. Then he reached out—Zlatan tensed again—and Paolo raised his brows at Zlatan, before simply turning the knob and opening the door to Zlatan’s room. “There.”

So much for the lock, Zlatan thought. And also that it was a bit of a pity Paolo hadn’t been along for Zlatan’s last trip, since that trick would’ve been more useful than that damned hand of glory. Then Zlatan had to stop his musings and shush Sandro again, trying to console the cat with a chin-scratching. He didn’t much like the way Paolo was acting, but with the racket Sandro was making, they couldn’t stand out in the hall.

“What if I don’t like you?” Zlatan asked, turning himself around the jamb and into the room. He went a few steps, then spun to look at Paolo.

His balance made him sway a little. Paolo stood in the doorway till Zlatan was steady again, then came quietly in and shut the door. “You don’t know me,” he said, looking at the door’s edge fitting into the frame. Then he looked at Zlatan. “When you do, I think you’ll like me.”

Zlatan snorted, then laughed and sat down on the bed. He lowered Sandro to his lap, but kept hold of the bristling cat. “You think, huh?”

The other man drew away from the door and paused, looking at Zlatan. It was quiet again—Zlatan had stopped laughing without thinking about it. Then Paolo came to the bed and seated himself besides Zlatan, so their arms were brushing against each other. He bent around and looked at Sandro, who hissed at him again; Paolo’s hair had fallen to veil his eyes, but it wasn’t long enough to hide his smile. Then his lips parted as he laughed. “He’s a good cat,” he said. “He worries about you.”

Sandro stopped hissing and stared at Paolo, occasionally turning his head as if a different angle would make him understand better. Finally he backed up onto Zlatan’s thigh, the one farther from Paolo. He gave his shoulder a lick, then coiled round to rub his head against Zlatan. He didn’t like it but he was going to ignore it, and maybe it’d go away.

Paolo lifted his hand, then his head as he swept the hair from his eyes. He was still smiling, but with his lips together, and the smile lengthened a little as his hand left his hand and came to rest on Zlatan’s shoulder. Zlatan looked at it and then back at Paolo; Paolo had been and was still only looking at Zlatan’s face.

“Yes, I think so,” Paolo said.

The back of Zlatan’s neck prickled. He shifted away from Paolo, then threw his shoulder forward to knock off the man’s hand. Then he looked back up, but Paolo didn’t seem offended. The other man merely put his hand down on the mattress behind them, leaving himself turned towards Zlatan.

Someone knocked at the door. Zlatan wrenched his head around, then winced at the pains that that started up. Then he put his hands around Sandro, but Paolo had already gotten up. “I’ll see who it is,” Paolo said over his shoulder.

Sandro butted Zlatan’s chest hard. “_Nyaow_.”

“Quiet,” Zlatan told him, looking at Paolo walk. The man made deer look like clumsy plodders.

“Nyaoow,” Sandro insisted. When Zlatan ignored him, the cat irritably thumped his rump against Zlatan’s side, then slowly laid down across Zlatan’s lap. He and Zlatan both watched Paolo.

* * *

A good large meal, and the appetite to enjoy it, greatly improved Zlatan’s mood and even helped a little with some of the aches and pains. Better yet would have been a long soak in a bath big enough to hold him, but he was at least two days’ away from anywhere that had that and had to make do with a few buckets of hot water.

Still, getting the dirt out of his hair didn’t feel too bad, Zlatan thought as he pulled his head out of the second bucket. He grabbed the edge of the bucket and leaned on it as he used his other hand to squeeze out the excess water, then straightened up in time for Sandro to hiss from the bed. Zlatan stiffened and looked at his shirt—the maid had finally brought up his laundry with his dinner—but it was across the room on the chair. Then Zlatan sighed and reminded himself he’d died earlier in the day, and turned around to see Paolo letting himself back into the room.

The other man had went out shortly after dinner had come up, saying something about going to find something for himself in the kitchen. He’d stayed out much longer than that, but Zlatan hadn’t had any desire for Paolo to hurry back and so hadn’t gone looking.

It might have been interesting if Zlatan had went out. Paolo had gotten rid of the courtier’s dress in exchange for plainer riding gear. He still was far better dressed than Zlatan, with black leather boots and overcoat that looked as soft as butter, but he looked as if he could stand a long ride—Zlatan grimaced and abruptly went over to retrieve his clothes. He half-turned, avoiding the sweep of Paolo’s coat as the other man took it off, then shook out his shirt.

“You’re still damp,” Paolo observed. Then Zlatan had to look at him, and Paolo looked unconcernedly back. After a moment, Paolo pivoted around, searching for something. He found it on the bed and went there with a nod to Sandro, which so surprised the cat that he stopped mid-snarl. “Pardon.” Paolo plucked the sheet from the bed, careful to give Sandro time to step off it, and then brought that back to Zlatan. “I can ask for a fresh sheet.”

“After you’ve already borrowed Vieri’s clothes? Then he’s a lot more generous than I would’ve thought.” Zlatan reluctantly accepted the sheet, using it to towel off his back and chest. At least he’d had the brains to do his legs first, and wasn’t completely undressed.

Paolo frowned at him. Then his face cleared and he looked bemused. “These are mine. Christian only walked in the woods a few times, when he first came here. We would talk. He was never thirsty, so…” Shrugging, Paolo padded around Zlatan, picking at his front. Then he peeled off his dark-red doublet and folded it. He set that down on his coat before standing back, absently shaking his arms to open up the crushed folds of his sleeves. Nice white linen for his shirt. “He hasn’t come into the woods in a long time. I don’t think he likes being reminded, either. I’ll ask Elisabetta for the sheet.”

But he merely stood there, as if waiting for Zlatan to do something. Then he looked away, his chin rising slightly. So did his eyes, but then they flicked down to follow whatever it was, drawing attention to his long lashes. His head didn’t move.

Sandro stopped in mid-stride and stared back at Paolo, then came up to Zlatan and put his paws on the bucket. “Maaow.”

“It’s pretty filthy,” Zlatan said after a moment, glancing at the water. He looked around, then cursed under his breath and dug the soap out of the bucket. It was covered with a scummy layer that didn’t come completely off, even when he rubbed his thumb over the ball, and finally he just pushed away the bucket.

Then he started to rise, but stopped when a hand wrapped around the bucket’s rim. Miaowing, Sandro jumped away, then scrambled up so he could stand on Zlatan’s leg. Paolo smiled pleasantly, tipped his head a little, and then lifted the bucket. He put his hand under the bottom to steady it, then went over to the window.

While Paolo dumped out that bucket, Zlatan ruffled Sandro’s ears and then stretched his hand out for the other one. He swished the soap a few times through the water, then frowned. “Bit cold—”

Sandro slithered into the bucket before Zlatan could stop him. It must have been a little deeper than Sandro had been expecting, because he flailed wildly before managing to hook his forepaws over the rim. He glanced at Zlatan, ducked his head in a sneeze, and then sat there in the bucket. His nose twitched in a small sniffle as he leaned up, looking at Zlatan. He moved his paw to poke at the soap in Zlatan’s hand.

“You’re so fucking bizarre sometimes,” Zlatan said, shaking his head. But he got hold of the cat and started to scrub the soap over Sandro’s back.

The door creaked and Zlatan looked up. Paolo arched his brows, then ran his hand down the edge of the door till his fingers lapped over the inside handle. “I’ll take the bucket down, too,” he said.

“Thanks.” Then Zlatan swore and jerked his head down, so he didn’t see Paolo go out. He looked at the four little red marks on the back of his hand, then at Sandro.

“Thhppt.” Sandro’s little pink tongue vibrated at him as the cat tried again to clear the water from his nose and mouth. Maybe. The problem with him being solid black was that it made it hard to tell when he was frowning and when he was being supercilious.

Zlatan chewed at his lip, then raised his hand. When Sandro stiffened, Zlatan cocked his head at the cat. “Well, you want to sit in the cold water, or you want a bath?”

“Mraaow,” Sandro decided after a moment. He pulled himself up on the rim, then twisted so Zlatan could run the soap all the way down his spine to his tail. His head began to droop. He purred.

“So you forgive me?” Zlatan asked.

Sandro stopped purring and looked hard at Zlatan. He pulled his forepaws off the rim, making the water splash up over the side. Then he shook his head, flinging more water into Zlatan’s face. Zlatan rolled his eyes and reached for the cat, but Sandro abruptly reared up, getting his forelegs over Zlatan’s wrist. He stood like that for a couple seconds, staring at Zlatan. Then he bent down and licked at his claw-marks.

Zlatan grinned and twisted away his hand, moving it down and under the cat. He scooped up Sandro’s rump so he could get at the cat’s belly. “I knew you would.”

“Nyaow,” Sandro muttered. He was still cranky but he let his head rest on Zlatan’s arm as Zlatan scruffed soap into his fur.

* * *

Vieri pulled Zlatan half into the hall, then let go but kept moving backwards himself. After a moment, Zlatan sighed and followed the other man. He pulled at the door but he didn’t hear it close. Then his fingers slipped off of it.

“You know he’s fey,” Vieri said without preamble.

Zlatan opened his mouth, then closed his eyes and rubbed at the side of his nose. “You know him, don’t you?”

“Not really. We talked a few times.” An approximation of a smile twitched at Vieri’s lips. It made him look like an old hunting hound with a bashed-up muzzle. “I wasn’t happy when I first came here. He’ll kill you if you let him, but in a nice way. Quiet, quick. I’ve seen it.”

“That was before,” Zlatan said. He put out his arm so he could lean against the wall. It made him look more nonchalant, taller, but also it helped with his sore legs. “He’s got nothing to guard now. It’s different.”

Vieri pursed his lips, not liking it but having to think on it anyway. Then he looked up all of a sudden, straight at Zlatan. “So what are you?”

“Me.” Zlatan grinned like a wolf.

It didn’t satisfy Vieri, but he did recognize the warning. He stared for a bit longer, then shrugged. “Well, your business anyway. Pippo’s still going to be at La Vieille Dame?”

“He’ll be there the whole season, why?” Zlatan asked.

The other man hitched himself around on one heel, then dismissively rolled his shoulder. He ran his hand over the top of his head and down to grab at the back of his neck. “I need to talk to him. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

For a few moments Zlatan couldn’t answer that. Then Vieri was too damn far along the hall, but Zlatan still sputtered a bit before finally getting his disbelief under some control. He looked at Vieri again, then turned around. Zlatan shook his head, hard. He stared at his door.

He hadn’t shut it all the way. After a last disgusted moment, Zlatan blew out through his nose and reached out, pushing open the door.

He came into the room, then pulled up so he could push the door behind him. He made certain to lean back till he heard the wood scrape. “What were you doing?”

Paolo remained on the floor by the bed. He had one knee up and one arm trailing over the mattress, and he looked up at Zlatan as if he had every right to be there. Behind him, Sandro darted restlessly about the bed before abruptly jumping off at the end, well clear of Paolo. He came running up to Zlatan and threw himself into a standing position, pawing at Zlatan’s knee. “Mrraow. Mraaaaaow.”

Zlatan looked at Paolo a moment longer, then stooped and scooped up Sandro. He gave the cat a nuzzle and Sandro put up with it, then didn’t. Snickering, Zlatan kissed Sandro’s ear for good measure and then clamped the squirming, irritated feline to his chest as he walked across the room. “You two chatting or something?”

“I thought I’d get to know him,” Paolo said. He shifted out of Zlatan’s way, then slowly rose to seat himself on the bed. His eyes went from Sandro to Zlatan, and then out to the center of the room. “You seem to care about him very much.”

“I do. He’s stayed with me a long time. Bit mouthy, but he stays.” Zlatan looked down at Sandro, but the cat was watching Paolo again, ears pricked alert. He didn’t move when Zlatan scratched a nail over his head, so Zlatan put him down on the bed.

Everything suddenly hurt, especially right behind Zlatan’s eyes. It felt like somebody was rubbing sandpaper over them. Zlatan squeezed them shut, then opened them as he stepped out of his boots. He kicked those over, so they’d be near but he wouldn’t trip over them, then got onto the bed. Sandro belatedly scurried out of the way, taking up a perch on the headboard.

Paolo had turned around, and he watched as Zlatan stuffed his legs under the blankets, then flopped on his side, facing out into the room. He moved once, to lift his hand so Zlatan could pull up the blankets. He kept his hand up, its fingers loosely curled. It hovered nearly over Zlatan’s face.

“You can go find another bed if you want,” Zlatan said. He rolled his head back into the pillow, then moved it forward again as he felt Sandro climb down onto the pillow behind him. Warm fur tickled the back of his neck.

“I like this one.” Paolo looked down at the floor, then bent over. Two tugs and his boots clumped softly against the floorboards; the most noise Zlatan had heard from him in a while. Then he leaned back over Zlatan. “I’ll stay.”

Zlatan felt something skitter over his nape and reached up to push Sandro. He didn’t need a clawing there. “Why?”

“I’d like to,” Paolo said. He twisted farther, so he could put both hands on the bed. It strained his shirt so nearly half his collarbone showed, and maybe if he moved again, the whole sleeve would fall off his shoulder. “Is that all right?”

After another moment, Zlatan grinned and threw back the blankets. “All right, we can share. I snore, though. The bed’s too damn small too.”

The muscles around Paolo’s mouth shifted, not quite a frown. He glanced down at the bed, then leaned back and gracefully swung his legs onto the mattress. Then, very slowly, he slid down next to Zlatan. His hand touched Zlatan’s hip, then dropped to the mattress. He put his head down so he was facing Zlatan, but tucked in his chin so his brow was just in front of Zlatan’s mouth.

Zlatan let the grin go off his face as he pulled the sheets back up. He lifted himself on the arm he had under him to get his other one under the blankets, then clucked his tongue to give Sandro warning. Then he rolled over onto his back, closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep. He was too damn tired.

* * *

Vieri rode about what one would expect: a big-boned charger with a coat that wouldn’t show much dirt or blood, but with splashy white socks and muzzle blaze. It didn’t seem like he’d packed much, aside from the broadsword on his back. It was nearly as big as Zlatan’s.

The whole inn turned out to see them go, but only Elisabetta came up to Vieri. She didn’t seem happy, and they had a whispery quarrel before she finally gave him a grudging peck on the cheek. Then she turned, her skirts whipping into the legs of Vieri’s horse, and stalked back into the inn. “I’m keeping the dog.”

“Till I get back,” Vieri grumbled. He jerked his horse, which had shied from Elisabetta’s skirts, back into order and then turned towards the road. Then he looked over. “Well?”

“Waiting for you,” Zlatan said. Then he cursed and pressed his hand to his chest. He began to reach into his doublet, but the clump of Vieri’s horse made him look up. Zlatan gritted his teeth and turned his horse with his knees to follow, then nudged at Sandro again. “_Stop_ that. We’re just starting.”

“Is something wrong?” Paolo eased up beside Zlatan. His reins lay slack against his saddle, his horse placidly moving along without any apparent direction. It was a pretty cream color, with a smoky mane and tail. A stallion, long-legged and elegant but built a bit more solidly than show horses normally were. It could probably do in battle.

Zlatan blinked and looked up, recalling that Paolo had asked a question. Then he shook his head. “No, Sandro’s just complaining.”

A muffled miaow came from Zlatan’s chest, making him wince. Paolo glanced over, then smiled. He absently toyed with his horse’s mane. “Where are we going?”

Vieri looked back at them, then grunted. His horse sped up a little.

“Never mind, if it’s an uncomfortable matter,” Paolo said, his tone not changing. His eyes drifted down to his horse’s neck; his fingers slowed their play, then twisted into the strands so his horse’s stride momentarily broke. Then Paolo shook his hand free and drew his fingers gently along his horse’s withers, soothing it. “Are you feeling better?”

“I’m fine. That one wasn’t that bad. I’ve had worse.” Zlatan missed a beat in his horse’s step and winced as his ass was roundly thumped. He was too damn old for that kind of beginner’s mistake. “So where’d you get the horse? It’s a nice one.”

Paolo glanced at Zlatan. His gaze dropped a little, then went back to Zlatan’s eyes. “You can have him, if you’d like.”

“No. No, that’s fine. I mean, you keep him.” Then Zlatan swallowed another curse and reached into his shirt. He adjusted the way the sling cut at his neck and gave Sandro a warning poke. “Where’d you get him?”

This time Paolo dropped the conversational act and studied Zlatan closely for a while. Then he nodded, turning away. He was looking at a passing bird, maybe. “I bred him, so he comes with me.”

“What’s his name?” Zlatan asked. He acted surprised when Paolo looked sharply at him, then laughed roundly. Even Sandro’s protest couldn’t spoil his amusement then; he just put up a hand over the squirming lump at his chest and kept laughing. Finally Vieri called back, asking what was it, and Zlatan let himself wheeze to a stop. “I’m teasing you. What, you can’t take it?”

There was a flicker beneath the pretty green of Paolo’s eyes. He cocked his head, then smiled as he slowly turned to look at his hands, resting on the pommel. One of his fingers stretched out and drew slowly down the side of a rein. “You can find out, if you’d like.”

Zlatan sobered. Sometimes he was too used to things for his own good. He looked away, then kneed his horse to move faster when he saw the gap that’d opened between them and Vieri. “We’re going to La Vieille Dame,” he said. “You know it?”

“No,” Paolo said after a moment. His horse slipped up beside Zlatan’s again, as effortless as an eel swimming through a creek. The sunlight left gold in his hair. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

Safe enough, Zlatan thought. “All right.”

* * *

They stopped for lunch by a stream. It was deeper and much brisker than the other one, and as their horses pulled up, something jumped off the bank and swam furiously off—fat, dark brown and with a long tail. But Paolo stayed mounted a good deal longer than either Vieri or Zlatan, staring hard at the running water. He only stirred when Zlatan took his reins and called to him, and even then he looked at Zlatan as if he didn’t remember who Zlatan was.

Then he did, and Zlatan could see the charming smile trying to fit itself together as he stepped back. He didn’t give Paolo the chance, but instead turned around and unbuttoned his doublet till Sandro’s head popped out. Sandro craned this way and that before tipping his head up to look at Zlatan. “Mraaaow?”

“Don’t make me chase you down,” Zlatan said. He looked into Sandro’s eyes, then reached up to his neck.

Vieri came back from the stream just as Zlatan was lowering the sling to the ground. He stopped and watched Sandro wriggle free of it, then thumbed his nose. “There are bears and wolves around. I saw some of their shit by the water.”

“Nyaow,” Sandro said contemptuously. He went off a bit, sniffing around, but stayed only about a yard away as Zlatan found himself a nice stump.

Paolo finally dismounted. He tied up his horse next to the others, then came over to Zlatan and knelt down on the grass. Then he looked up at Zlatan through deceptively lowered lashes. His lips parted.

“Little odd for you, seeing another one after so long by yours?” Zlatan asked. He watched Paolo close his mouth, then jerked his head at the stream without looking away. “You all right?”

The corners of Paolo’s lips thinned out, and his eyes narrowed as well. For a moment Zlatan thought he was going to get angry, but then Paolo merely tossed his head to take a few strands out of his eyes. He put out his hand for one of the skins, pulled off the cork and then expertly squirted some dark red wine into his mouth. A beam of sunlight stroked across his throat, then retreated to his hair as he lowered the skin. He hadn’t spilled a drop but he still ran a finger across his mouth.

“Another stream?” he said, bored.

Zlatan started to smile after a moment. He looked away. Sandro was pouncing around, trying to pin down a dragonfly, but as it zipped away, he turned into a sitting position and watched Zlatan instead. “You know, before this war I hadn’t been around funerals for a while. Then I was going to them all the time, and it was—it was like I’d forgotten other people stay dead when they die. It took a while to get used to it again.”

He looked at Paolo and Paolo was looking at his hands, folding and refolding them in his lap. The man’s brow was furrowed, and then he glanced sharply up, sensing Zlatan’s attention. He still started upon finding Zlatan’s gaze on him, and the way he put his hand down on the stump was a bit irritated. But his push on it was languid again, and so was how he slid onto the stump next to Zlatan. There was still the wineskin between them, but Paolo pulled that up and put it on his lap, settling so his hip pressed into Zlatan’s thigh.

“You didn’t like the idea of me dying,” Zlatan said.

Paolo tilted his head. The fringe of his hair came within a finger’s-width of Zlatan’s face. “We don’t die very often, you know.”

“I know.” Zlatan looked at Sandro again. The cat was standing with his head lowered, like he was going to pounce at them. Then Zlatan looked at Paolo.

“It’s odd for us too,” Paolo said quietly. His fingers twisted around the top of the wineskin, not flirtatious, then gripped it. He turned and nearly pushed the skin into Zlatan before he caught himself. He needed to take a short breath before he turned up his face, with its planes coolly contemplative again. “Thirsty?”

The grass by Zlatan’s feet ruffled up as Sandro skidded into it. Sandro glowered at them, then hopped onto Zlatan’s out-stretched legs and climbed brazenly into Zlatan’s lap, where he began curling around with every apparent intention to take a nap.

“Of course you want to sleep now,” Zlatan muttered, distracted. He moved his doublet out of the way, then ran a finger down Sandro’s back. “And where was this when we were riding?”

“Nyaow,” Sandro mumbled, tucking his tail around himself.

Something brushed Zlatan’s arm. Then Paolo leaned down, his shoulder briefly blocking Sandro from view. He put the wineskin by the stump, then straightened and bent around Zlatan for the food. “I suppose you aren’t thirsty now, but you should at least eat. It can’t be easy to come back.”

“It’s not that bad, when you get used to it. Sometimes it’s even a pain.” Then Zlatan remembered who was keeping him company and grimaced. He started for the skin, pulled back his hand and finally clasped the back of his neck, massaging it. He looked at Paolo and of course the other man was watching attentively. Maybe even with a little surprise. Well, he’d said it; he couldn’t take it back. “You want to hand me some of the bread?”

Paolo raised his brows a little, then obligingly tore off a chunk. He passed it to Zlatan, then turned his wrist when he withdrew his hand, so that his little finger drifted over the back of Zlatan’s hand. Then he pulled off a piece for himself, almost stroking it over his lower lip into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and looked in artfully feigned inquiry at Zlatan. “Mmm?”

“You eat this kind of food?” Zlatan asked.

“Oh. Well, yes.” Paolo tilted his head, considering the crust in his hand. Then he teased off another piece. “Ours is better, I think. Finer. But this has its charms.”

Zlatan snorted and put his hand down for the skin. “You can’t live on charm.”

“No, you can’t,” Paolo said, with more force than mere agreement would have required. He turned up towards Zlatan again, his chest pressing into Zlatan’s down-stretched arm. His eyes weren’t charming. They were too open for that.

Then Paolo abruptly moved back. He looked down and Zlatan felt the weight on his lap shift, and barely got his arm down in time to push Sandro back. “Don’t _claw_ him,” Zlatan scolded.

Sandro looked disbelievingly back, then started up and twisted around. Vieri came striding up, and favored them evenly with his irritation. “Not done yet? You want to sleep out in the open tonight?”

“Well, that’s what I did when I came.” Then Zlatan grinned, watching Vieri stomp back to the horses. Even though Vieri was right: best they hurry up, and make the fortress by nightfall. When Zlatan had come, it’d still been all right, but four days later, he couldn’t be certain.

* * *

The warning signs began to crop up about an hour later, when the surrounding woods petered out into grassy hills. They passed farmhouses and fences, but saw no people and only the odd skinny cow or goat wandering around. Sandro could be unbelievably short-tempered about traveling but even he sensed it, quieting down inside Zlatan’s doublet.

Vieri reined in by one fence, then pulled over his horse to look at the pond just beyond. It was fouled with rank green scum, and here and there dead fish were floating amid the slimy clumps. His nostrils flared, and then he looked at Zlatan. “Have they been doing this long?”

“Poisoning the water?” Zlatan hitched a shoulder. He stayed on the road. “You’ve been lucky, living in an enchanted forest. Nobody wants to go back in there. Not even them.”

“It’s not that enchanted,” Vieri grunted. He came back onto the road and began to slap his reins against his horse’s flanks, only to halt it again. He’d seen something in the ditch on the other side.

Zlatan stood up in his stirrups, then sat down. He rubbed at the side of his face and something moved at the edge of his sight. He took down his hand, then put it out, but Vieri had already gone over to have a closer look.

Vieri stiffened. He lifted his hand, then smacked it down against the saddle. His horse started and skittered sideways, but Vieri didn’t correct it. He breathed roughly a few times before abruptly hauling his horse’s head around and staring at Zlatan as if it was his fault.

“You knew what we were up against before you left,” Zlatan had to say. He sounded more tired than angry, though he was both.

“It wasn’t that bad when I went,” Vieri snapped. His horse sidestepped again and he finally brought it into order. Then he turned and headed down the road at almost a gallop.

Another horse whickered. Paolo came up alongside Zlatan, then past him. The other man leaned over to look, then straightened up. His face was perfect and emotionless till he glanced back at Zlatan. Then his eyes started to question, but Zlatan wasn’t in the mood for it. He kicked his heels into his horse’s sides and set off after Vieri.

Vieri calmed down soon enough, and Zlatan wasn’t even so much mad as not wanting to look at it, as he’d already seen more than his fill of that. And they both knew that they’d have to be more careful from now on.

“I haven’t seen those in a long time,” Paolo said, once their horses had slowed. He swayed as his horse abruptly swerved around a hole in the road. “Do you know who called them up?”

“Yes.” Zlatan cocked a brow at Vieri’s sudden attention. “You can tell Inzaghi you were right about that, by the way.”

It didn’t make Vieri happier, and he looked at Zlatan with irritation instead of horrified rage. His lips twisted. “He knew, too. He just didn’t think we could do anything to that bastard without making things worse. The man is—”

“Was,” Zlatan corrected. He grinned. “It was pretty bad, but hey, if you can’t die, who cares?”

For a long time Vieri gazed at Zlatan. Then he threw up his head, wrapping his reins around his hand. “So who called _you_ up?”

“Nobody calls me up. I’m Zlatan. I’m free to do as I please.” Then Zlatan had to twist his own lips. He tilted his head and looked down the road. “Well, except stay dead. But that’s all right.”

“So why are you bothering with this?” Vieri snarled, abruptly turning back. He shouldered his horse nearly into Zlatan’s; from Zlatan’s other side came a long, low hiss. “Why do you care?”

“Maow!” Sandro bucked and kicked a leg into Zlatan’s chest. Then it felt like he was slipping and Zlatan hastily clutched at him, trying to make him go still.

Vieri was distracted. Only for a moment, but it was enough for Zlatan to knee his horse forward, avoiding the collision. Then Zlatan reined in, turning back. He jerked his chin at the other man. “Why shouldn’t I? Just because I don’t stick around to rot in the ground like you lot, I can’t enjoy things? A nice meal, a warm bath, a good run on my horse? Playing with Sandro? _They_ stay dead, you know. I’m not like _them_.”

He stared at Vieri, daring him to pick a fight with that. The other man stared back, lips working back from his lips, one moment snarling and the next frowning. Then he ducked his head. Vieri looked out across the fields, then back at Zlatan. Then behind Zlatan. He began to snort, but changed his mind as his eyes returned to Zlatan. Instead Vieri pursed his lips before nodding slowly. “Well, sorry.” He shifted in his saddle before scratching at his head. The movement was strangely awkward. “I _am_ sorry.”

“All right,” Zlatan said slowly. He breathed out, feeling his muscles relax. Then he shrugged, running his hand up and down his nervous horse’s neck. “Just so you know.”

“So let’s go,” Vieri said after a moment.

He started off again. Zlatan let him, taking a few more breaths before he raised his arms. But instead of signaling his horse to continue, he looked back at Paolo. He blinked, then lowered his arms and sat back, watching as Paolo drew his horse around.

Zlatan pointed with his chin. “Where’d that come from?”

Paolo looked at the sword in his hand, then shrugged. He slid it back into its scabbard and bent around to strap it to the saddle behind him. “With me.”

“It’s nice,” Zlatan said dryly. It was. A little too much gilt chasing on the hilt for him—all that pretty glitter would crumple under the first good blow—but the blade seemed wide enough to stand up to some fighting. “So you’ve seen—well, you would have. Your kind cleared them off and forced them onto this side of the hills in the first place.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Paolo straightened up and raised vaguely impressed eyes to Zlatan. “You remember your history. Our history, your legends, that is.”

“Eh, not mine.” Vieri was getting too far ahead, Zlatan noticed. He slapped the reins and set his horse to trotting, then looked to the side. Of course Paolo was there. “I guess it’s not such a great matter to you, then.”

“Why not?” Paolo asked.

Zlatan paused and his horse slowed. He grimaced at himself and tapped its flank to speed it up. “Well, you’re done with them, aren’t you? Besides, I hear you don’t care too much about anything, anyway.”

“That’s not true,” Paolo said curtly. When Zlatan looked at him, he dropped his gaze and slightly rolled his shoulders forward. Then he stiffened his back and met Zlatan’s eyes again, without a waver in him. A little irony touched the smile he gave Zlatan then. “My kind, perhaps. Many things seem less important as time passes, and we do have a great deal of time. But not me.”

“No?”

Paolo smiled again. His eyes were very green, very hard, but he wasn’t trying to look like that. He wasn’t thinking about how he looked, with that expression. Prettier than when he was trying to look pretty. “Do you think I was guarding that spring because I wished to?”

“I don’t know,” Zlatan answered honestly. “You could tell me.”

That hardness softened, turned puzzled. Then Paolo looked away. His fingers turned slowly in the reins, and then he glanced diffidently at Zlatan. “If you’d like. Would you like that?”

“Forget it,” Zlatan said after a moment. He exhaled disgustedly, then urged his horse on again, ignoring that second flash of confusion in Paolo’s eyes.

* * *

The grass began to brown when they were still a league away, and night was quickly falling. Up ahead, the fortress of La Vieille Dame thrust out of the ground like a jagged black tooth. The line of the battlements had changed a bit; Inzaghi had made some progress, after all. But he didn’t have any scouting parties out and he should have.

Vieri reined in so his horse turned across Zlatan’s path, sniffing the air. Then he grimaced and wiped at his nose. “You smell that?”

“Nyaow,” Sandro answered. He wriggled and prodded, and somehow worked loose one of the ties to Zlatan’s doublet. His face peeped out just as Zlatan was reaching up to pull apart his collar. “Maaaow.”

“I know, I know, but it’s not me so stop complaining.” Zlatan put up his hand, then thought again, clasping his shoulder instead of his sword-hilt. He swept his gaze over the barren, empty fields surrounding them. “Hey, Vieri. You bring a bow and arrow, something like that?”

The other man had let his horse wander on, but at that he pulled it back around. He looked disgustedly at Zlatan. “Did somebody _tell_ you I’m a bowman?”

“No, then. What about you?” Zlatan asked, looking over his shoulder.

For once Paolo wasn’t looking back. He was gazing at something on the horizon, holding himself tensely but not fearfully. Whatever it was, he knew what it was and he wasn’t so much worried as careful. “Why do you need one?”

“Well, I thought I’d write a note and tie it to an arrow, and you could go ahead to shoot it over the walls. Then somebody would come out and show us in.” Zlatan squinted at the hills as well, but didn’t see—he did. Little dots, scrambling up over the hill-tops and then vanishing. He shifted his hand over to finger his sword again, then looked around again. Most of the trees had been cut down, but the odd sapling had survived the cull. A likely one, straight and about the thickness of a wrist, was just beyond Paolo. “No, that’ll take too long. Here.”

“Mau? Maow! Nyaow!” Sandro snarled and hissed like a little dragon, but his limbs were too wrapped up for him to squirm out of the sling. He did nearly bite Zlatan’s wrist as Zlatan lifted the cloth loop over his head, then yowled pitifully as Zlatan swung him out of the way, holding him out towards Paolo. “Nyaaaow!”

“Fuck, you want them to come faster? They won’t even eat you, you’re so skinny. Just step on you on the way to me, so save it for the gate,” Zlatan snapped. Then he looked at Paolo, who didn’t seem to understand. “_Paolo_. Take him already. My arm’s starting to hurt.”

After another moment, Paolo put out a hand and took the wildly-thrashing sling. He gathered it towards himself, but not so close that Sandro could slap into him. He still didn’t look as if he knew what Zlatan was doing. “But they don’t know—”

“They’ll know Sandro. They’ll know his fucking screaming, trust me.” Zlatan swerved his horse around Paolo’s, aiming for that sapling. He drew abreast of it, eyeing the dirt around its base. Then he sighed and looked up again, since he was still hearing rustling cloth. “Don’t hold him like that. You drop him and I’ll fucking drown you like I should have.”

Paolo flinched a little from Zlatan, then glanced at the sling. He pursed his lips a few times before reluctantly gathering up the bundle against his chest. Something ripped and the muscle in his cheek twitched, the fingers he had under the sling closed upwards a little. Then they loosened, and he carefully slipped the loop around his neck. He fiddled with it a little, his eyes drifting back up to Zlatan. They were questioning and maybe worried now, curiously enough.

“Just find him some chicken once you’re inside,” Zlatan added. He leaned over and grabbed the sapling. “Sandro, _shut up_. You know I’ll be along in an hour or so. Half the time you act like you don’t want me around, anyway.”

“You going?” Vieri asked, coming up between Zlatan and Paolo. He looked at Paolo, whose lips thinned. “Your horse looks the fastest.”

Paolo looked down, then back at Zlatan. Then he nodded, flipping his reins one-handed over his horse’s neck. It was a sudden, ungraceful movement for him, though the horse slipped into a canter smoothly enough. As he flew by them down the road, Zlatan thought he spotted just a touch of a flush to Paolo’s golden cheek.

Well, his kind had old blood, but from time to time it could still stir. There were enough stories about that, and the havoc it could wreak.

Vieri eased in a bit closer. He tied his reins to his saddle-horn, then reached over his shoulder and pulled out his sword. After bringing that around to lie across the pommel, he sat easily back and watched Zlatan wrench the sapling out of the ground. The corner of his mouth quirked. “I used to do that when I was younger. With trees.”

“This _is_ a tree.” Zlatan breathed in quickly, then breathed out normally. He backed up his horse so he could try and knock the dirt off the sapling’s roots, but it was wet and heavy and sticky. Finally he turned to Vieri and held out the sapling. “Well, want to neaten it up for me?”

A glimmer of teeth showed behind Vieri’s lips. He shrugged, then whirled the sword over his head and brought it down like lightning. There was a crack and then the root-ball fell neatly away.

“You want a point on the end, too?” Vieri asked. He was relaxing, even seeming good-humored. A spark had come into his eyes and there was an energy to his movements that he hadn’t had before, a springiness. He was looking forward to this. It had been a few years since he’d fought.

Shaking his head, Zlatan directed his horse back onto the road. They weren’t that close so that they had to settle for such a bad place to fight, only frontwards and back clear of obstacles, and mud sucking at their horses’ feet. “Nah, no need to fancy up for them. Come on. Day’s not over yet.”

* * *

It was a cloudy night, so without torches it was almost pitch-dark on the ground. Zlatan could feel the shudder of the sapling in his hands when it hit something, but he couldn’t see what that was, and he only knew where Vieri was so long as the man kept cursing.

They were only a few hundred yards from the fortress walls, but they’d had to dismount about a half-hour ago and there still was no sign of any movement from the garrison. If Paolo had somehow failed to get inside, then the noise they were making should’ve raised someone by now.

Something stumbled into Zlatan and he twisted away, only to hear a whistling behind him. He pivoted, parried that and then was going to brain the first attacker with the other end of the sapling, but Vieri managed to swear in time. Zlatan exhaled sharply, then planted the end of his makeshift pole into the ground as he heard something, weighty enough to shake the ground, thunder towards him. He squinted at the blackness, but it was all the same—fine gifts he had, he thought irritably, and not for the first time.

At any rate, he aimed correctly. The pole took whatever it was squarely on, but amid the shrieking and the crunching of flesh and bone, the sapling violently splintered out of Zlatan’s hands. Strips of it whipped up from the break, lashing his fingers as he exclaimed and tried to throw it down. He slapped one hand against his thigh, then went down under a shove to his shoulder. Vieri cut up something over him, cursed again, and then let Zlatan up so Zlatan could unsheathe his sword.

“You put all your trust in a fey thing like him and your _cat_?” Vieri spat out, between pants for breath.

Zlatan inhaled, then abruptly whipped around. His sword shivered against something metallic, then stuck as he still heard something coming at him. He had to twist awkwardly to get his dagger from his boot and stick it, and even so, it slashed his thigh. He stumbled back, then shook his leg: bloody but the limb still worked. “No, in Inzaghi. What the fuck is keeping him? Even he shouldn’t take this long to put together a par—”

A wall of flame suddenly blazed up behind a hillside to their left, then raced down towards them. Beneath it was a host of horsemen, glinting with armor and weapons. The shadows hissed and barked, then defiantly surged at Zlatan and Vieri again.

But Vieri’s good humor was already restored. He launched himself at the dark mass and sent slimy limbs and gore to Zlatan’s feet, laughing. “Pippo? I thought you knew him. He never shows up till the last possible moment—”

He could laugh. For most of the fight he’d been shielded by the greater length of Zlatan’s pole, only taking on the ones that got past that. He was still fresh and Zlatan, frankly, was remembering that he’d had a fucking death only yesterday.

All the air to Zlatan’s left whooshed away from him and he swung wildly around, only to take a roaring blast of fetid, acrid breath to the face. His eyes stung and he couldn’t see—he felt something slice through his sleeve and he stabbed blindly at it, but then clawed fingers whipped around his ankle. Before he knew it, he’d been yanked down onto his back. His teeth were too clenched together to let out his breath and it crammed up in his mouth.

He looked up and a huge dark body descended onto him. Its claws sank through his doublet, then ripped great gashes in that as a horse rammed broadside into it. The thing went over, screaming as it did, and the horse backstepped on its hindlegs before slamming its forefeet down just short of Zlatan’s torso. Firelight flared up all around, slicking Paolo’s dark clothes over with scarlet and yellow. His eyes glittered like black jet in the night as his horse kicked and stamped, and then he turned away, jumping the horse over Zlatan.

Zlatan scrambled to his feet, hacked out at a lashing, scaly tail and then turned to see Paolo’s sword rising and falling as if the man was threshing wheat. Paolo steered his horse with his knees only, his other hand gripped around the saddle-horn. Then a black mass came up on that side and silver flashed in his hand. The body fell away and Paolo flipped the dagger the other way in his hand, twisting his horse around so he could shrug off something on his other side. 

He came back to Zlatan, blackish splatters cutting diagonally over his face and neck. The collar of his doublet was torn open nearly to the waist and the laces of the shirt underneath spilled haphazardly out, looking like they were made of pearls in the low light. Then he lifted his sword and dagger, and ran their blades through his fingers to clean them; he was wearing dark gloves that he peeled off and tossed carelessly to the ground afterwards. He sheathed sword and dagger, and came to a stop before Zlatan.

“Where’s your horse?” he asked. He was breathing a little faster. His eyes were still glittering.

“We found them.” Inzaghi came riding up, with Vieri close behind him on a new horse. “Do you have it?”

Vieri had the saddlebags and threw Zlatan’s to him. Zlatan staggered under the weight, then gritted his teeth and heaved them over his shoulder. The bastard could’ve waited till Zlatan had cleaned and put away his sword, and Zlatan did that next, fumbling because the bags threw off his balance. “Yes,” he said. “You’re late.”

“Your cat wouldn’t get off my head,” Inzaghi said, a touch petulantly. “I had to lock him in—he’s _fine_.”

“That’s Sandro,” Zlatan said, laughing.

Vieri snorted, and drew up his horse so he had Inzaghi’s eye. “Why didn’t you _write_?” he demanded, growling. “You should have told me it was like this.”

Before Inzaghi could give him an answer, Vieri had wrenched his horse about and was taking off for the fortress. Some of the horsemen had dismounted to make certain of the deaths, but now they looked up to Inzaghi for orders. Inzaghi was staring after Vieri, mouth twisted up in a way Zlatan hadn’t seen before on him. Then Inzaghi exhaled, ran an impatient hand through his hair and clumsily turned around his horse. “Back,” he ordered curtly. “Now.”

A man ran up to slap the rump of Inzaghi’s horse to get it started, and something touched Zlatan’s shoulder. He turned and looked at the hand extended to him, then followed up the arm to Paolo’s face. Zlatan grinned with his jaw dropped because he was still too out of breath to shut it. “If I’d like, is it?”

“Get on or don’t,” Paolo said curtly. Right after, he pressed his lips together. Maybe he regretted it, maybe he didn’t but thought Zlatan would take it badly. Either explanation would have fit the look on his face.

After a moment, when Paolo’s hand was just beginning to withdraw, Zlatan seized it. He wrapped his fingers around Paolo’s wrist, then moved over and grabbed the back of Paolo’s saddle. The other man leaned forward as Zlatan heaved himself up behind Paolo, then settled back against Zlatan’s chest. He pulled in his arm so he trapped Zlatan’s hand against that and his side, even after Zlatan had let go of his wrist. His hair crushed into Zlatan’s face: he smelled of salt and blood and leather.

The horse coiled its body beneath them, ready to leap into a gallop again, and Zlatan slid his arm around Paolo’s waist. The horse’s first step stuttered into an awkward canter instead, then smoothed out. Zlatan laughed to himself, about himself. He shook his head, feeling the fighting tension in his muscles bleed into a prickling restlessness, then pushed aside Paolo’s hair with his chin and pressed his open mouth to the back of Paolo’s neck. The horse broke stride again. Under Zlatan’s teeth, the flesh shivered.

* * *

“Here,” Zlatan said, tossing the flask to Inzaghi. He smiled pleasantly at the other man’s exasperated face, then turned into the room. “Your problem now.”

Paolo had gone ahead of him. Inzaghi didn’t come after him, so Zlatan kicked the door shut. He looked about the rooms to orient himself, then crouched just fast enough to scoop up Sandro mid-leap. Sandro didn’t carp or wail, but just shook as Zlatan pressed his face into the cat’s side. He pawed a few times at Zlatan’s hands, then stretched up to lick the tip of Zlatan’s nose when Zlatan began to lower him.

Zlatan smiled, but then kissed Sandro on the top of the head and put him down. The cat looked up, the beginnings of a protest in his eyes, but Zlatan turned away. He shook his head and hoped Sandro would understand. If not—well, there were locks on the doors. He hated to do that but he wasn’t in the mood to play right now.

Not that game, anyway. He turned into the bathroom and by the tub Paolo looked up at him. The other man had stripped off his coat and doublet, and they lay folded to the side, under his sword and dagger. He’d been working on his shirt when Zlatan had come in, but now lowered his arms, watching as Zlatan swung off his swordbelt, stepped out of his boots.

“Do you think being able to revive will always save you?” Paolo suddenly said.

“I knew you were coming back.” Zlatan stripped off his doublet, then loosened his waistband. Then he went to the washbasin and tried the tap. Water came out but it was as icy as Paolo’s tone. “I gave you Sandro, didn’t I?”

Paolo sighed. He clicked his nails against something hard. “But you kept the water.”

“Well, you said you didn’t come with the water. Just the spring,” Zlatan answered. He turned around, absently scratching at a half-dried stain on his jaw. “And you said you’d stay. Didn’t you?”

Paolo walked across the room. Even when he was angry, he stepped as lightly as a bird. He put his arm out and seized a handful of Zlatan’s shirt. Then he jerked his hand away almost as roughly, exhaling. He looked up at Zlatan. The thin, perfect line of his mouth was beginning to tremble.

“People don’t, with me,” Zlatan said. “You know, they’ve tried to burn me before. As a witch. So no, coming back doesn’t always help.”

For a moment the simmering in Paolo’s eyes flickered. But then he exhaled again, looking away. His left shoulder moved back and forth once. “So why stay with them?”

“Because I like them anyway. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.” Zlatan laughed and watched Paolo’s head whip around. He looked into those eyes and watched the simmering grow more and more chaotic. “I do like you, you know. Are you staying?”

Paolo spat out his breath at the same time his hand went into Zlatan’s shirt again. He paused, his nails half-dug into Zlatan’s chest, then inhaled a snarl as he yanked Zlatan forward.

The shirt didn’t stand the pull and ripped half-off Zlatan, but by then he already had his hands on Paolo’s hips, and Paolo had moved his hands to grip at Zlatan’s face, almost clawing it off the bone as he crushed their mouths together. Guttural rumblings were still coming from his throat, making it shake as he pushed himself up Zlatan, shoving his forearm onto Zlatan’s shoulder. The cords of his neck almost forced themselves between Zlatan’s teeth, taut but soft enough to give the impression of yielding. Maybe the real thing as well, if Zlatan wanted.

Then Paolo’s elbow was over Zlatan’s shoulder, and the other man had slipped down again, his teeth raking the bridge of Zlatan’s nose before jabbing into Zlatan’s lower lip. He twisted in Zlatan’s arms like a wild beast, his breath hot and still sweet with blood. If he was willing to be devoured, so too was he ravenous—Zlatan sank his fingers into the man’s hips, then dragged them down the line of Paolo’s flanks. He snapped at Paolo’s mouth once, twice, had Paolo push a soft lip into his teeth during the third and didn’t bite down. Instead he met lip with tongue, feeling the change between that and the harder gums, the rough teeth.

His wounds stung at him. Zlatan ripped his mouth free and breathed hard, and Paolo’s head dropped to his chest. A tongue wandered over one cut and Zlatan hissed, looking down; Paolo’s eyes met him, held—and dropped as Paolo sucked at the cut, drawing out the clotted blood so the fresh followed. Grinning, Zlatan grabbed the back of Paolo’s head. He twisted his fingers into the tangled curls, then wrenched Paolo up and back, so Paolo’s chin was pointed at him.

Paolo’s hands slid over Zlatan till only their fingertips were barely in contact with Zlatan. He looked down through his lashes, lips open, watching as Zlatan ran his gaze up and down the stretched bow of Paolo’s body. He didn’t struggle and he didn’t act like he was considering it, either.

Zlatan touched a stain on Paolo’s chest, just to the left of the man’s breastbone. He flicked at it with his nail, then slid all his fingers across it. He kept his hand moving over the momentary bump of the nipple, then down to fit his fingers between the grooves of Paolo’s ribs. The fingers he had in Paolo’s hair began to slip in the silky strands. Paolo sank a little to ease the strain on his neck, then leaned forward, the tilt of his head moving towards Zlatan and to the left. His breath brushed at the pulse thumping in Zlatan’s, then his mouth. He slid his hands down Zlatan’s front in a slow wave, then brought them up again, teasing away the few remaining shreds of Zlatan’s shirt.

“I stay,” he murmured. He turned his head further and just stroked his cheek across Zlatan’s shoulder, letting the movement flow back into his shoulders so his shirt slipped down them. Then he looked up at Zlatan, mouth open as he panted, but held with confidence. “So?”

“So,” Zlatan repeated. He drew his hand out of Paolo’s hair and put it under Paolo’s shirt. Then he pushed both up till he was cupping Paolo’s shoulders. “So what’ve you got?”

He jerked his hands out and down. The shirt tore in the back, then slithered down Paolo’s arms to hang from the elbows. Paolo turned in the rags, letting a few locks fall over his eye. “A palace under the hills, made of marble and crystal and gold. The plates are carved from diamonds, and when you sleep, you sleep under a sky that never storms.”

“I like the rain. Sometimes.” Zlatan dropped his hands under Paolo’s arms and then dragged at Paolo’s back, pushing him into the kiss. The man came willingly enough; his skin felt like silk, with hot coals burning underneath.

Paolo wrenched himself free. He gripped Zlatan’s elbow. “Packs of hounds with red and white ears, and perfect partridges caught in silver nets. A forest whose end you wouldn’t find if you walked through it for your whole life.”

“My life? Or do you mean just one of them?” Arching his brows, Zlatan shaped his hands about Paolo’s waist. He slid the edge of his thumbnail up the center of Paolo’s spine, then caught the man’s mouth at the top of his sway. He tasted deep, and then released Paolo’s lips as his hands wrenched down Paolo’s hose. “I free you from a forest, and you want to go back to one?”

Nails dug viciously into the hollow of Zlatan’s elbow as Paolo yanked down Zlatan’s arm. He pressed his lips up the side of Zlatan’s neck and wedged his thigh between Zlatan’s legs, leaning hard. His free hand tore at the laces of Zlatan’s hose, then twisted between them to grip Zlatan’s prick. He had smooth hands, without calluses, and being held by one was like being wrapped in—and his nail cut across the head of Zlatan’s cock and Zlatan arched, banged his head against the wall.

“Me,” Paolo rasped, his voice shaking with anger and confusion and fear. He clawed at Zlatan’s arm, tried to suck his breath from Zlatan’s skin. His mouth scrabbled its words up and down Zlatan’s throat. “Myself, my beauty, my body, my mind, my loyalty. My—”

Zlatan seized his hips. Their bodies shivered apart, and then Zlatan threw them down. With their legs tangled together, neither of them made a soft landing but Zlatan was quicker afterwards, rolling over Paolo. He sought out the man’s wrists and pinned them down, then braced his toes against the tile and shoved his knee up between Paolo’s legs. Paolo hissed and jerked over, but he couldn’t turn far enough to block it. He only partly diverted Zlatan’s knee into his inner thigh, and even then he bent back against the floor, crying out under Zlatan’s lips.

“Your what?” Zlatan half-mouthed to him. He licked Paolo’s lip, then bit lightly at the underside of Paolo’s chin, not enough to even mark the skin when he pulled away. Paolo wrenched at Zlatan’s grip, and he was strong enough to pull up his arms, but Zlatan pushed with the motion, forcing Paolo’s hands up by his head. He bent again, kissed the curve of Paolo’s ear. “You know what I have? I have breath. I have a cat. I have a sword. I have no home and restless feet. I have _life_ and you want to offer me—”

He broke off as he pushed himself up on his hands. Paolo stared up at him, hair matted down with sweat, mouth gaping open with every shuddering breath. There was knowledge in those eyes. Knowledge but no presumption.

Zlatan bent a little. He could feel a nick in his lip throb as he smiled. “I have your name, but I won’t use it again. I won’t need to. Give me your heart.”

Paolo breathed. His shoulders twisted up with an inhale, went flat back with an exhale. His eyes stayed on Zlatan. Then his lashes began to tremble. They went down suddenly, and he bent back his neck. His foot slipped away from Zlatan’s shin and Zlatan’s weight immediately pushed his kneecap into Paolo.

Zlatan bent lower, till his mouth was just touching the highest point of Paolo’s curved throat. Then he backed off. He let go of Paolo and rocked back on his feet, looking around till his gaze ran over some bottles on a counter. Then he went for them; his balance was off and he lurched into the counter, but he didn’t much notice. He flipped off a top, smelled the oil and then dumped it into his hand.

Then he turned around and Paolo was on him, hands gripping his shoulders, hips pushed up, knees clamping at his legs. He stumbled and dragged oiled fingers down Paolo’s chest, sliding down the side of the counter. His teeth clattered at the impact with the floor, catching Paolo’s lip that was between them but Paolo didn’t flinch. Paolo’s hands clawed over and over again through Zlatan’s hair, ripping out strands as Zlatan twisted them over, pushed Paolo onto the floor. He yanked off Paolo’s hose, then pushed his fingers up into Paolo’s body.

Paolo groaned into Zlatan’s neck, locking his arms so tightly around Zlatan’s head that he couldn’t raise it to see. He felt at Paolo’s thighs, traced a dribble of oil up them as he guided his prick into the other man. For a moment Paolo seized up, but then he arched and his body slackened and Zlatan slipped into him as if slipping into water. They rolled over again, and Paolo stared wildly down at Zlatan, his palms flat against Zlatan’s chest, one of his nails pushing into Zlatan’s nipple. It scraped hard as Zlatan smacked down his hand against the floor and shoved himself up, shoved himself in, pushed his mouth against Paolo’s till the other man’s fingers were curling against his shoulders.

He turned them around and pinned Paolo against the side of the counter, then gripped the edge as he fucked the other man. His sight began to spin till something pressed against his head, steadying it. Paolo’s fingers slipped across his cheekbone, then urged Zlatan’s head down till his face was buried in Paolo’s neck. He found the pulse with his mouth—it was racing, uneven. It leapt into his tongue, then shuddered there as the whole world swayed in the dark.

* * *

Zlatan turned over, winced as a pulled muscle in his back protested, and then looked across the floor. Then he laughed. He ran out of breath barely halfway into it and had to stop. “I don’t need blood. Didn’t know you were so bloodthirsty.”

“We’re not. I’m not.” After a moment’s hesitation, Paolo put his hand back to his throat. He fingered the bruised but unbroken skin, then shrugged and lowered his arm. He was lying on his belly, naked. Leaning on his forearms but at a languid slope, as if the idea of simply sprawling across the floor wasn’t far from his mind. “But it’s a powerful thing.”

“It’s not the only way to do it,” Zlatan muttered. He breathed in, then sat up. He had to grab his knee to help him along, and then all the cuts on him hurt again. Well, he’d have to break open the scabs anyway to clean them. “It’s all right, I’ve got you.”

Paolo pursed his lips, then tilted his head. He slowly lowered himself till his chin was resting on his arms. His self-assurance was still intact to some degree. He knew Zlatan was looking at the run of his bare back into his buttocks, at any rate.

“You didn’t think that _that_ was what I am, did you? Then burning would’ve taken care of me.” Zlatan began to search around for a towel, only to stop when he saw a little head nose around the corner. Then he sighed and sat back down.

Sandro came warily into the room, looking between Zlatan and Paolo. He stopped just short of Zlatan, then jumped back when Zlatan reached for him. Frowning, Zlatan lowered his hand and Sandro arched his back as if he was going to hiss. Then he straightened out. His head went down and stayed down as he came up to Zlatan and nudged Zlatan’s hand with his muzzle.

“I came back,” Zlatan said. He slowly moved his hand up to lie on Sandro’s back, waited a moment, and then scooped up the strangely compliant cat. The fur wasn’t easy on the cuts on his chest, but as long as Sandro didn’t struggle, it wasn’t awful. “You know I do.”

“Maaow.” Sandro desultorily plopped his head on Zlatan’s forearm. His hindlegs twitched a few times, and then he heaved himself up into a more comfortable position, one foreleg draped over Zlatan’s arm. “Mau. Mrraow!”

His ears laid back and Paolo slowed, then muttered something and continued his crawl across the room. The muscles in his thighs flexed into the muscles of his hips, and then he drew himself up by Zlatan’s left side. He was looking at Sandro with a grave, almost sympathetic expression on his face. He said something again, then looked up when Zlatan bumped him with an elbow.

“What was what?” Zlatan said.

“My tongue,” Paolo replied after a moment. He cocked his head. “You know so much and you don’t recognize it?”

Zlatan pressed his lips together, then snorted and nodded. “All right, I’m a little patchy in places. It’s the reviving trick. Makes it hard to learn sometimes.”

Sandro had quieted down, but was still stiff. He grew stiffer as Paolo lifted a hand towards him, but kept his paws to himself as Paolo lightly touched his head with one fingertip. Then Paolo leaned against Zlatan, a pleased smile lingering on his face as he looked up into Zlatan’s eyes. “What are you?”

After a moment, Zlatan turned away. He scratched Sandro under the chin and let his eyes wander the room, till they passed over Paolo’s feet. Then he looked more closely, studying the fine white scars that crisscrossed them till one suddenly pushed over the other. He moved his foot and pushed them apart, then glanced at Paolo.

“It was a punishment,” Paolo said after a moment. “I was too fond of certain things not of our world, so they sent me there, where I could be near enough but couldn’t go to them.”

“And you want to go back now, after that?”

Paolo’s eyes flashed, then closed. He put his cheek against Zlatan’s shoulder. “I only said that I have a palace, which you can have. If—”

“—I’d like,” Zlatan finished, smiling.

The side of Paolo’s mouth turned up, then flattened as he lifted his hand. He looked at it, then turned it over and let its knuckles rest on Zlatan’s thigh. “It was a duty as well. If not I, then someone else would have had to stand guard. That water can’t be used except in the time of greatest need, or else…and I do love my world. Only…not so much as…”

He went silent, but began to run his knuckles up and down Zlatan’s leg. After a few passes he turned his hand over again, and wrapped his fingers over Zlatan’s thigh as he sat up. He looked into Zlatan’s eyes, then leaned forward. His lips brushed Zlatan’s mouth and stayed there.

Zlatan shifted Sandro out of the way, then bent down and finished the kiss. Then he got to his feet, absently petting Sandro because the cat had miaowed, wanting something. “I’m tired. I want to go to bed,” he said. He looked down at Paolo. “Will you come?”

Paolo blinked, then put out his hand. He touched the counter, then flattened his hand against it as he used it to stand. His body pivoted with the motion so Zlatan’s eyes ran from one shoulder across the back to the opposite hip, and then up to Paolo’s arched brows. The other man stood there for a moment, then went slowly around Zlatan and into the other room. His hand slipped off the counter and drifted behind him before giving a little up-flick of the fingers, calling. “I’ll find the towels.”

“Nyaow,” Sandro grumbled.

“Oh, you’ll come too,” Zlatan said. “After I wash up, and get you your stupid bath. That’s why you’ve been whining, isn’t it?”

Sandro looked at him, then shut his eyes and sulked without bothering to get out of Zlatan’s arms. Chuckling, Zlatan kissed him on the top of the head and then went to find the soap.

* * *

It ran across Zlatan’s pectoral again, lightly but surely stirring him out of his doze. He turned his head to the side, then back as he opened his eyes. Then closed them, grimacing as the crusts in them pulled at his lashes. But something was lying across his arm, keeping him from bringing it up to rub his eyes clear.

Then it shifted to roll over him. The touch on his chest turned into a slow, circling caress as he raised his hand and pushed at his eyes. He flicked his fingers clean, then lifted the hair out of his face and looked up at Paolo.

The other man smiled faintly, then glanced down. He put his arm out to the side and pushed at the mattress; his knee slipped down the side of Zlatan’s leg so the flat of his stomach pressed down on Zlatan’s groin. Then he brought back his arm, tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and leaned forward to just kiss Zlatan’s lower lip. The point of his shoulder moved in a lazy ellipse as his mouth moved to the side of Zlatan’s jaw, his hand moved down Zlatan’s side.

“It’s morning?” Zlatan asked. He pulled his other arm free, then put that hand on the small of Paolo’s back.

Paolo’s nod bumped the top of his head into the underside of Zlatan’s chin. His mouth continued to drift down Zlatan’s neck, insistent in the same gradual, understated way as a sunbeam across a sleeping man’s eyes. He moved his hand between their bodies so his thumb was lying along the top of Zlatan’s prick.

Zlatan blinked, then laughed and stared at the ceiling. It’d been a while since he’d even had time for a single night, let alone…he shifted his hips as his half-softened prick thought about being less softened. His head lolled into something on the pillow and he twisted around, then nudged the black clump of fur with his forehead. Grumbling, Sandro curled more tightly around himself.

The cat still didn’t like Paolo for some reason, maybe because animals could tell faster than people what Paolo was. But he’d put up with Paolo, and that damned water was no longer on Zlatan’s mind, so Zlatan put his hands on Paolo’s shoulders and—

Someone flung open the door. Sandro was immediately up and hissing, and then tumbling down off the pillow onto Zlatan’s chest. His claw snagged a bandage and Zlatan bit down on his tongue, then twisted up on his arm while letting his other side behind him to hide the dagger in it.

Paolo rolled off Zlatan onto his side, then shrugged and stretched, turning away from the door. He pulled the sheets off Zlatan’s feet as he leisurely sat up, unconcerned with the people at the door. He did take Sandro off Zlatan, which gave Zlatan the chance to stick the dagger back under the pillow before Inzaghi saw it.

“Morning,” Zlatan finally said.

Inzaghi looked at him, then at Paolo for a while. The man’s expression didn’t change then, or when he returned his gaze to Zlatan. It was just as put-upon. “Christian left with the water and a heavy guard. Hopefully he’ll make the capital in three days.”

“Guess he and you didn’t settle things before he left.” Zlatan jerked his chin at Inzaghi’s neck. “You should cover that.”

The other man’s hand went for it, then abruptly dropped to seize his shoulder instead. His frown deepened. “The garrison’s depleted so Christian would have enough men, and now they’ve asked for a meeting just past the moat.” A flicker of amusement, not pleasant, went through Inzaghi’s eyes. “It’s not morning. It’s evening.”

After a moment, Zlatan cursed and flipped up the pillow. It sailed over the headboard and disappeared somewhere on the floor. He didn’t bother seeing where as he picked up his dagger and threw off the sheets. “Let me find my boots.”

“Find the rest of your clothes,” Inzaghi said pointedly, averting his eyes.

Zlatan was too annoyed to even laugh. He swung his legs down, then looked over his shoulder as the mattress sank on that side. Paolo met his eyes, no longer amused himself. Then the other man put Sandro down and Sandro immediately stepped into Zlatan’s lap, pawing and whining. That kept Zlatan on the bed as Paolo slid off the bed and into a bedsheet in one fluidly simple motion. “I’ll find them,” Paolo said, tucking a free corner around his waist. “I’ll get our swords, too.”

“Thanks.” Then Zlatan sat there. He drummed his fingers against the bed, then sighed and picked up Sandro to try and soothe him.

* * *

“I’ve been having to lock up Sandro a lot more lately,” Zlatan muttered, leaning against the wall. He picked at a broken nail while watching them winch up the gate. “Wonder what’s bothering him so.”

Beyond that was still the portcullis, and it was still light enough for him to see across the moat to the small party on the other side. They were a little more human-shaped than most, but the standard-bearer had fangs that protruded well past her lower lip, and the apparent leader had the head of a beaked fish.

“He cares about you. He’s worried,” Paolo said. He turned a dagger this way and that, then tested the edge against the back of his hand. A bead of red immediately sprang up and he jerked away the blade. Then his eyes went up to Zlatan. He touched the drop of blood, swept it off with a fingertip and lifted his hand to his mouth, kissing the cut. When he lowered it, his skin was unmarred and his lips were slightly redder. “You’ve died or nearly so a few times since I’ve known you. Even if you come back, it’s not easy to watch.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t carry a mirror around for that.” Then Zlatan shook off his distracted air and turned away from Paolo, back to gate. He pushed himself off the wall. “Not bloodthirsty, then? Still, your blood runs a lot hotter than I’d heard.”

Paolo moved so he was back in Zlatan’s line of sight, but it seemed that he was done flirting. He slid the dagger back into his boot, then straightened up and produced a pair of black leather gloves, which he pulled onto his hands. “When we have hunts on nights you—when people wouldn’t dare go out?”

“Nice change of words,” Zlatan said after a moment, smiling. He studied the pike the leader carried. “What was it you said to him, when we left? That made Sandro stop—”

“All right.” Inzaghi came walking between them, then strode on towards the rising portcullis. His guard fanned out around him, and up above Zlatan could hear a few twangs as the archers readied themselves

Zlatan rolled his shoulders a few times, then fell in behind the group. He worked his way out to the right; Paolo stayed a little behind and to his left. They headed out across the drawbridge, but stopped just short of its end. The opposing party watched silently, holding themselves in a tight knot.

Minutes passed. Once or twice Zlatan saw the hands of Inzaghi’s men twitch convulsively towards their weapons. If someone didn’t speak soon, a fight was going to break out anyway.

“You wanted a truce to collect bodies?” Inzaghi said just then.

The fish-head clicked his beak, then whipped down. Just behind him was a spear-thrower who was already flinging his weapon. Zlatan glimpsed the head, unusually broad with something dangling from it. A complicated knot of red rope and he knew that knot. He started towards Inzaghi, but then realized the spear was aimed at him and twisted out of the way.

Too late. It was going to take him in the shoulder at least—something hit him there and he thought it was the spear. But he felt fur against his cheek, and as he kept falling, the haft of the spear flashed by him. His head twisted to follow it and there was a small black body at the other end, being carried off towards the moat.

Then Zlatan’s elbow was on the ground. His hip, the rest of him—he kept rolling and came up again and then he’d cleaved the fish-head in two. Then his sword was hilt-deep in the spear-thrower, too deep to wrench out quickly. Someone was going to stab him and Zlatan screamed in their face, to their dagger-point and then he didn’t take his sword out of the spear-thrower’s corpse. He burned it out, and the ball of fire flashed forward to engulf his other attacker. He turned and fire arced around him from the tip of his sword.

“No! No, come back—” Voice in his ear, hand on his arm. Then Paolo wrapped his arms around Zlatan’s waist, too close to flame and anyway Zlatan was recognizing him, coming unwillingly out of his rage. “Back!”

Zlatan whipped his head forward and saw the mass of bodies start to charge down the hills, but he didn’t care. He wanted to fight, but Paolo wouldn’t let him go and Zlatan couldn’t find enough purchase on the drawbridge’s slick planks to stop the other man from dragging him to the gate. He kept screaming.

* * *

“Wouldn’t this have killed even you?” Inzaghi hefted the spear in his hand. Its butt was broken off but the massive head and haft still made Inzaghi’s arms and fingers look as thin and fragile as twigs.

“Yes. No. Maybe. It’d take longer to come back, but—and I don’t care, you should have let them try. You don’t order me around. I just help because I want to, you fucking bastard,” Zlatan snarled, stalking near enough to Inzaghi to break the man. He wanted to. He turned away and lashed out at the wall. “You just care that you’ve got that too now, two in one trip. You don’t care about my cat.”

The other man pulled the spear towards him, then began to wrap it up in his cloak. He didn’t seem to even care that Zlatan wanted to kill him. “Your cat saved you.”

“So?” Zlatan turned away from the wall and stormed back towards Inzaghi, only to have men crowd in the way. If he wanted, he could kill them too. “He’s _dead_.”

“He’s not,” Paolo said. His eyes widened when Zlatan whirled on him, but he stood his ground. “I was trying to tell you.”

He was standing next to someone wrapped up in a wet cloak, and dripping water under it. At first Zlatan thought it was one of Inzaghi’s men, fallen into the moat during the fight, but he didn’t recognize him. He’d been gone for a while, so Inzaghi could have gotten someone new, but the man was barefoot, and showed a bare ankle as well when he hitched up the cloak. They hadn’t had time for anyone to strip down.

And he didn’t look like it. He was as tall as Paolo, with black hair and black eyes, and skin the color of sunlight shining through a jar of honey. Skin like Paolo’s, smooth and perfect as a child’s, but he wasn’t anywhere near that young. Not with those eyes, black but flashing fire deep in them, like opals.

“A friend’s not going to make me feel better,” Zlatan spat out. He went a few paces, then turned back and stared at the man. “What? Who are you, looking at me like that?”

Paolo ran his finger along the side of his nose, then curled it and pressed it against his upper lip. He looked at somewhere near Zlatan’s knees. “Alessandro.”

“Sandro,” said the man angrily. “Your cat. You idiot, what were you _thinking_?”

Zlatan opened his mouth. It wasn’t true, he thought. He hurt too much so it couldn’t be true.

“He was bespelled,” Paolo eventually added. He still looked downwards. “The spell broke when the spear hit him.”

“You make it here with the water and then think they’re just sending a truce party? You fool! They know you delivered it, and they know it was you! You’ve been showy enough about it.” The cloak slipped off one shoulder, then the other as Alessandro gestured furiously with his free hand. He tried to pull it back up, but then simply clamped the cloak to his side with his elbows as yelling at Zlatan took up too much of his concentration. “You’ve been running around, getting the pieces together, and no human could survive to do that. They figured that out—I’m only surprised it took so long, you’re so careless. Ten years—ten years and I’ve never hated not being able to tell you how _stupid_ you are than in these past few months. And chicken! As if chicken’s enough to make up for it!”

Inzaghi stepped between them, then looked curiously chagrined when they all started. He fidgeted with the bundle in his arms. “I’ll go, and leave you to it,” he said.

Zlatan put his hand to his forehead, then to the back of his neck. “No, I think I’m going to go. I need to sit down. This is harder than dying.”

* * *

Alessandro twisted his shoulders again against the wall, then looked down into his lap as he picked at his sleeves. He kneaded the mattress with his feet till he noticed Zlatan looking at that. Then he stopped and put his head back against the wall, lips pressed tightly together. Above them a dull red flush was beginning to stain his cheeks. “I’m not used to clothes.”

“I know. You were a cat.” Zlatan let his head rest against the wall as well. He listened to Paolo folding sheets in the bathroom for a moment. Then he flipped up his hands and held them out about a foot and a half. “You had fur. You were—you were _smaller_. You’d purr when I scratched your head.”

“I angered a powerful lord and he changed me, and sent me out of the hills,” Alessandro said a little more softly. His feet began to push into the mattress again and this time he didn’t stop. He pushed a strand of hair behind his ear, then made the same movement with his hand even though the strand was already secured. Half-dried, his hair was curling up tighter than Paolo’s. “It was meant to last till I died. Till something killed me.”

Zlatan put his hands down. Then he moved them to the mattress; his left hand brushed Alessandro’s hip and he sensed the other man turning his head to look. He didn’t glance over, but instead twisted to stare out into the room. “And you _loved_ chicken. Chicken, fresh fish if I could get it. But cooked. You threw fits if you had to eat it raw and you thought I could cook it.”

“Paolo and I—we’re acquainted. We were friendly, but not close. Before, that was. It’s been a long time.” Alessandro moved beside Zlatan, almost like he used to wriggle when he was growing impatient. “I didn’t know he was guarding the spring. If you’d taken me with you, he would have recognized me. He did when he did see me.”

“You were so picky about where to sleep, too. Never on the floor. Hated dirt,” Zlatan said.

Something hit his arm and he looked over, and Alessandro hit his arm again. Then the other man threw himself back against the wall, scowling. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, I know, you were cursed, you know Paolo, that’s why he kept talking to you, but—I used to give you _baths_, all right? I—I need a moment to think about this.” Then Zlatan put his arm behind his head. A moment later he’d pulled it down and was rubbing at his temple, his right eye.

“You don’t stay dead, and last night you took up Paolo. How hard is this?” Alessandro muttered.

“It’s not about whether I believe what you’re telling me is possible. I know that it is. I’ve seen it before—well, not with your kind—but that kind of curse. But it’s about…I never noticed. You were my cat,” Zlatan said. He lifted his hands again, then let them drop.

In the bathroom, the rustling noises suddenly stopped. The door was still ajar and through the slit Zlatan could see something come up to it. Then the door was shut all the way.

“Well, it was a clever spell.” Alessandro pulled his left arm across him by the elbow, long after his joints had popped. Then he released it and grasped one of his knees, pulling it up so his clasped hands slid down his shin. “And you’re very dense sometimes.”

Zlatan glanced at him, then at Alessandro’s hands. One of them had an old scar across the back, just where the bottom edge of a door had once caught Sandro on the paw. Then Zlatan smiled. He chuckled, keeping his head down, and rubbed at his mouth. “You know, I loved you. You stayed with me when nobody else would.”

“Do you want to know what I did to be cursed?” Alessandro said after a while. He didn’t look at Zlatan, but held his head slightly to the side so the tips of his hair grazed Zlatan’s shoulder. His hands slid up and down his shin, then flowed onto his foot. He slotted his fingers through his toes and pulled them back, then abruptly pressed his shoulders back against the wall, turning his head towards Zlatan. “He was my lord. He went away for a while, and I was supposed to watch over a pet of his. A rooster. It wasn’t even one of ours—it was a common rooster from some farm. I thought—it was boring work, and I went to talk with some friends and a fox sneaked into the coop and killed it.”

“That was silly,” Zlatan remarked.

The other man frowned and lowered his brows, then nodded tightly. His head slid down the wall a little. “I was younger. Selfish, easily distracted. But we all are like that, I told my lord when he returned. And it was only a bird. He said yes, but it’d crowed once when his enemies were nearing, and without its warning he would have died. It was no warning, I said. Only its nature to crow. And he said you don’t know what the nature of a beast is now, but you will learn.”

Then Alessandro closed his eyes, as if falling asleep. But his mouth was too tense. He moved his head once, grimacing, then bowed his head more so his forehead was nearly resting on Zlatan’s shoulder. Then he moved his hand from his foot to the bed, turning it over so it was palm-up. His fingertips curled and uncurled.

“And he said, ‘That bird loved me. Perhaps only as a bird can love, only as the one who fed it and cared for it, but it loved me. That’s why it crowed. And I loved it, too, and not simply for its crowing that morning. You don’t understand that either,’” Alessandro said even more quietly. His brow did press upon Zlatan then, and his hand went to Zlatan’s forearm. It rested lightly there, not all the fingers uncurled so his nails could be felt through Zlatan’s sleeve. But then he straightened his fingers, curved them around Zlatan’s arm, and they slid up as he raised his head. “So he bound me to live as a cat, till I knew why it was in the nature of animals to save men, and to love them.”

Zlatan looked at him. Then he twisted his shoulder, but Alessandro didn’t remove his hand. He twisted it again before pushing his elbow behind him, sitting up away from the wall, and Alessandro’s hand loosened and fell to the crook of his arm but no farther. “Is that why you sneaked out and jumped on my shoulder?”

“No. No, when I did that I wasn’t think—I was only thinking that you were a fool but you still deserved to live.” Irritation rasped through Alessandro’s voice as he sat up as well, half-turned towards Zlatan. His knees went down into the sheets. “And I was angry, because you’ll let Paolo go with you but you’ll lock me in a room—”

“You were a _cat_,” Zlatan said.

“But I wanted to stay with you!” Then Alessandro jerked away, lowering his head and taking his hand from Zlatan. He brushed at the hair in his face, then twisted his fingers back into the strands and dragged them behind his ear. “You’re such a _fool_ sometimes.”

Zlatan looked at him, then chuckled once. He bent down to look past the hair into Alessandro’s face, only for Alessandro to pointedly turn away. So Zlatan straightened and reached out, picking off a lock of hair from Alessandro’s face; Alessandro flinched and seized Zlatan’s wrist, then stilled. He was silent for a moment, and then he half-sighed, half-growled and pulled down Zlatan’s hand. He used his other to rid himself of the snarled curls in his eyes.

“You’re not much different like this than before,” Zlatan said. He put his hands against Alessandro’s face, and pushed up curled fingers on either side of Alessandro’s head. “Wrong ears, but the same frown.”

Alessandro flicked his gaze up, then grumbled wordlessly and grabbed both of Zlatan’s wrists. He held them in place while he ducked his head out of Zlatan’s reach, then pushed down on them so they swayed towards each other. “I’m not a cat now.”

“I know. And it’s odd but I think I still love you,” Zlatan said.

The other man looked up sharply, then studied every inch of Zlatan’s face. His gaze felt like a piece of coal was being passed just above Zlatan’s skin. On Zlatan’s wrists, his grip loosened and tightened, then fell away. He snorted and looked down between them, wrapping his arms around himself. “I hated it when you kissed my head, you know. It tickled.”

“I know. That’s why I did it.” Zlatan tipped over onto his hands and one hip, so he was leaning over Alessandro’s lap. He pulled himself forward, till he had to lift his head to keep from bumping Alessandro’s shoulder. When he put his hand on Alessandro’s knee for balance, it flexed hard but stayed where it was. He grinned, and slid it onto Alessandro’s thigh. “I didn’t love you like a man back then. You were a cat.”

“You keep saying that,” Alessandro said crossly, but he was tilting towards Zlatan. He resisted for a moment when Zlatan pulled at his arms, then let them unfold. His fingers brushed up against Zlatan’s chest, then closed around folds of Zlatan’s shirt. His eyes were looking, even if his mouth was still sealed up as tight as a tarred barrel. “You always think you’re so clever with your tongue, but you’re not. Listen to you long enough and it’s the same words over and over.”

“You’ve got ten years of complaints ready for me, don’t you?” Zlatan laughed, his mouth by the line of Alessandro’s jaw.

Alessandro didn’t move, and eventually the echo of Zlatan’s laugh faded away. Under Zlatan’s hand, Alessandro’s thigh and arm were trembling. So were Zlatan’s legs, from the awkwardness of his position. He let go of Alessandro’s arm to roll onto his hip and the other man abruptly seized his neck, breathing in sharply. Zlatan looked up, then smiled and turned his head so the side of his nose would fit under Alessandro’s; Alessandro didn’t smile.

“You’re a man now, and I think I still love you.” Zlatan raised his hand and laid a finger against Alessandro’s jaw, then watched as the other man turned into it. He let his finger ride the motion down to Alessandro’s mouth before trailing it down the fullness of Alessandro’s lower lip. “I want to find out, at least.”

The lip gave under Zlatan’s finger, then pushed up as Alessandro closed his mouth. He trapped the tip of Zlatan’s finger, pressed his tongue against it and then opened his mouth and turned his head. His other hand came up so he was cupping Zlatan’s throat as he pulled them together.

Zlatan reached for him but Alessandro caught his hands and pushed them down, till they were sinking into Zlatan’s thighs. He leaned on them, his mouth opening a little now so his breath could shake against Zlatan’s lips. Then he withdrew, and looked at Zlatan with challenging brows and wary, hopeful eyes. His fingers curled around Zlatan’s hands, then under them, making Zlatan’s fingers arch to accommodate them.

“Well?” Alessandro said.

After a long moment, Zlatan dropped his eyes. He looked at his hands, half-over half-under the other man’s. Then he slid them free. He heard Alessandro breathe in sharply and raised his gaze without moving his eyes. Then he lifted his chin and his hands, and put out his right hand. A single snarled strand of hair dangled before Alessandro’s left cheekbone and Zlatan carefully put a fingertip against it, then carried it back behind Alessandro’s ear. Then he let his hand drift onto the other strands, stroking down and around to lay his hand on Alessandro’s neck, his thumb under Alessandro’s jaw.

“Sandro,” he said. He grinned, then laughed.

Alessandro abruptly blew out his breath, then struck Zlatan on the shoulder. Between that and his laughter, Zlatan doubled over, his head grazing Alessandro’s arm. The other man struck him again, exclaiming disgustedly, and then seized Zlatan by the hair. He pulled up Zlatan’s head and pressed his hands to Zlatan’s cheeks, and then pressed his face between his hands. This kiss wasn’t gentle. Zlatan had to put his hands down on Alessandro’s legs to support himself.

They moved unexpectedly out from under his fingers, then slid away as Alessandro twisted them over, still kissing Zlatan as if he drew his very life from it. The sheets tangled up around them and Alessandro’s hip came down on Zlatan’s belly to knock the breath from Zlatan; Zlatan’s gasp carried Alessandro up and off, and then Zlatan caught up his right hand in Alessandro’s hair to keep the other man there. He looked up, still trying to gather in breath.

Alessandro’s lips were thin and flattened, but as Zlatan watched, they gradually became fuller, more curved. And so Alessandro was smiling, white teeth slightly parted behind red lips. He ducked down till he’d nearly taken the tip of Zlatan’s nose in his mouth, then rose again. “Mrraow,” he said.

“Sandro.” Zlatan’s irritation was an unthinking reflex. “_What_?”

“You’re an _idiot._” But Alessandro bent down anyway.

* * *

“Well?” Zlatan muttered over the point of Alessandro’s shoulder. His lower lip brushed half-dried sweat off the other man’s skin with every word.

Paolo’s gaze went to Zlatan’s mouth, as if he could see the stinging-sweet salt there. Then he twisted himself off the wall with a careless shrug. A smile of gentle amusement shaped his mouth as he came and sat on the edge of the bed. He let his eyes wander over the overlap of skin and sheets: Alessandro’s leg bared to the knee, Zlatan’s back to just beyond the small, Alessandro’s shoulders and neck and face with half-closed, unreadable eyes. Then he raised his hand and flicked a lock out of his eyes.

When he put down his hand, he laid it on Alessandro’s hand that was thrown over Zlatan’s ribs. He plucked that up with the delicacy of a girl picking wildflowers, then bent over it so his lips grazed the highest of its knuckles. Alessandro tensed, his head rising a little off the pillow. Then he snorted. His head fell back and lolled, twisting his bare neck towards Paolo, and while his long lashes still hid his eyes, the heat that stretched from them to Paolo’s was all but shimmering in the air.

“Well,” Paolo murmured. He released Alessandro’s hand, then turned enough to look at Zlatan.

His eyes stayed on Zlatan as Alessandro’s hand lingered in the air, stretched its fingers and ran them lightly down the line of Paolo’s jaw. Then Paolo leaned over Alessandro, over Zlatan. He pulled himself easily across the crowded bed and began to settle himself against Zlatan’s back as Alessandro arched lazily, pressing his thigh against Zlatan’s hip.

“I’d heard that jealousy was among your kind’s greatest failings.” Zlatan shifted to make room for Paolo, and to look into Alessandro’s eyes.

Alessandro raised his brows, then flicked the nail of his forefinger against a fresh, mouth-shaped bruise on Zlatan’s shoulder. “I had my moment last night. And you—you thought it was only wanting a _bath_.”

“You were still only four-footed to him,” Paolo observed. Then he curled his fingers about Zlatan’s arm, just above Alessandro’s hand, and bent over to look at Zlatan. “Jealousy, yes. But it’s hardly fair to presume what might cause it. And with us, I doubt that it should arise over this. We’ve discussed it.”

“I thought you said you only knew him a little,” Zlatan said after a moment, to Alessandro.

But Paolo answered again, as he slowly laid his head against Zlatan’s back. “But I do believe I’ll come to know Alessandro better.”

“I do believe so as well,” Alessandro said. He was less assured, more edged than Paolo in his reply, but nevertheless he seemed comfortable enough with the arrangement. His hand drifted over the bruise he’d teased a moment before, then trailed the length of Zlatan’s arm. It danced a little over the back of Zlatan’s hand, hesitated, and allowed Zlatan to twist his wrist and capture it. After a moment’s stiffness, Alessandro clasped back.

“Well.” Zlatan rested his cheek against Alessandro’s chest. He felt Paolo move with him, then breathe out slowly. “Well, then, good night,” Zlatan said, closing his eyes.

* * *

A flash like lightning illuminated the backs of Zlatan’s eyelids. He flinched, instinctively grasping a warm body to him, and then started for the body was far too large. Then he remembered. He opened his eyes, closed them and rubbed out the crusts, and opened them again.

Paolo was already awake and whispering something, his voice raspy with urgency, but Zlatan favored instead the man standing in the middle of the room. He was of average height and somewhat slight build, and his rough leathers did little to improve on that. But his eyes pierced the darkness of the room like arrows through silk, and behind every movement seemed to lie the distant rumble of thunder.

Zlatan felt Alessandro twist under him and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder for a moment. Then he pushed himself up and smiled. “Henke.”

“You burned someone,” Henrik said disapprovingly.

“I didn’t.” Then Zlatan cocked his head. “Oh, I did. I thought they’d killed my cat.”

None of the candles were lit, and no other light was present to relieve the darkness, yet there seemed to be a kind of light in the room. It flickered erratically, giving Zlatan slivers of the other man’s frown. The sigh came without such interruption. “I remember you cared for him a great deal. I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. Sandro’s fine. He’s here,” Zlatan said. He pushed himself up farther, then swung his legs over Alessandro so he could sit on the edge of the bed. Then he nodded to the other man. “But he’s not a cat anymore.”

Henrik frowned again. Then he bent his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then you burned someone.”

“I _did_ think they’d killed Sandro. Because they did kill him. It’s only that it made him a man again, is all.” Zlatan scratched at his knee, then looked up at Henrik. He sighed himself and clasped the back of his neck. “I know. But I did think so. After he saved me from one of the Spears. They were trying to kill me.”

“Kill you or not, you cannot be doing what you did,” Henrik finally said. “Not unless you wish to return?”

“There?” Zlatan asked. He jerked his chin at the ceiling, then laughed. “No. No, not unless they’ve grown a little closer. It’s so cold and distant. No wonder my father comes down here whenever he can.”

Henrik took a step forward and Zlatan stiffened. For a moment Henrik stared at him, grave and implacable. Then the other man shook his head, and pulled a hand across his mouth a little too slow to bar his smile. “Very well. _Don’t burn them._”

Then Henrik turned as if to leave, but stopped when Zlatan inhaled. He glanced over his shoulder before inclining his head once; something thin and white flicked between his fingers, then vanished as a sharp stinging pain bloomed on Zlatan’s wrist. A moment later the pain had died, and a blinding white flash had eaten up Henrik, leaving only the empty room behind.

A whisper rumbled around the room: “A present from me, in honor of your happy occasion. Use it to gain a little wisdom as well.”

It died slowly, echoes lingering on till the light pattering of rain finally banished them for good. Alessandro exhaled sharply and loudly, then turned over. “It’s morning,” he muttered. “But the rain—you cannot see it for that.”

“The sun’s still there, if you’re afraid for him,” Zlatan said dryly. He began to rise, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

He turned and Paolo was looking steadily at him. “You don’t die. Or you do, but you always rise again. As—”

“The sun sets every night, only to rise every dawn.” Zlatan grinned, then shook off Paolo’s hand. He stood up and offered his hand, and after a moment, Paolo took it. “But enough poetry. That’s for them who live in the sky, and I don’t live there. I live here, and it’s time to see what’s to be done today.”

Then he pulled Paolo off the bed, and Alessandro came after, so they all stood. It was raining, but through the clouds some light began to lift the darkness. It was day.


	2. The Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One hunter brings tales of strange things happening in an isolated mountain lake.
> 
> Occurs before Chapter One.

“Another one?”

“Yes, another one,” Didier said. He swung down the stack of pelts on his shoulder, then smoothed his arm across it to lay them flat on the counter. The old, cracked boards groaned under the weight so the others in the room looked up, but Didier merely twisted around. From the floor he took another stack of pelts, and heaved it up on top of the first. Then he leaned on them, pressing down on the furs with his right hand. “Last night, when I was checking my traps around the old mine lake. I saw it in the water.”

Near the fireplace a man was repairing a broken bow. He paused, the string wound around his hand, and grinned at Didier. “And did it have great red eyes, and a chest as broad as a bull’s, like that herdsman’s daughter said? Did it try to have you, too?”

Then he laughed raucously, and his lead was followed. Didier stood by his furs, his lips tightening. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, and then he turned away. He shook his head, running his fingers over the soft fur. “You should listen, but very well, you will not. I won’t tax your ears with the rest of the tale.”

“Oh, no, no,” said the man with the broken bow. “No, I want to hear it. You cannot stop there. You’ve already started.”

“I can and I will,” Didier snapped over his shoulder. The whites of his eyes flashed like lightning off a blade in the dark room.

Silence fell, but it was sullen and uncomfortable. The others drew away, fearful and resenting that fear for they hardly saw reason for it. And they resented the cause of it, for stirring their instincts so but offering them no simple explanation for that.

Didier raised his head higher, so his chin nearly cleared the point of his shoulder. Then he snorted and turned around. He shook his head again, and never fully raised it before looking impatiently up at the man on the other side of the counter. “Well?”

“They’re good furs,” Florent said after a moment. He absently let his breath hiss out the side of his mouth, calming from his sudden start. Then he looked down at the furs. He put his hand to one side of the pile and curled it over the edge so his fingertips caught the bottom pelt, then drew his fingers slowly up the side, counting furs. “You always bring in good ones. The caravans are late as well, so there’s a shortage. You’ll get a good price for these.”

“You mean you’ll give me a good price for them.” Then Didier tipped his head the other way. He pursed his lips. On the pelts his hand moved in a slow circle, almost a caress, before he abruptly jerked it away. Didier stood back and looked out the door, his eyes distant, his feet shifting against the floorboards as an impatient horse would stamp. “Never mind. Pay me and I’ll go.” 

“Sullen son of a bitch,” said another, hiding his mouth in the mug he lifted to his lips.

Then he started, slopping ale out between the mug’s rim and his mouth, as a sharp, loud thump echoed through the room. Then he slammed down the mug, spilling more of his drink, but Florent kept his gaze on Didier as he stood up. “Stay for dinner,” he said, brushing some stray hairs off the now-bare counter. He dipped his hand behind the counter and the clink of coins could be heard. “You’ve not come in for a while. Did you go as far as Guingamp this time?”

Didier slid his eyes to the side and looked long at the man who’d insulted him. Long enough for him to avert his eyes, his lip curling with humiliation and displeasure. Then Didier looked back at Florent. He frowned, as if he recalled only that Florent had asked a question and nothing of what that question had been. Then his eyes cleared. He shook his head, drumming his fingers on the counter. “No, I can’t stay. I’ve more business tonight.”

“Business with witches and monsters?” It was the first man who spoke, the one with the broken bow. Now he threw that to the side and a splinter of it abruptly cracked off, skittering across the floor to make a woman jump. He looked at that, then at Didier. Then he spat viciously into the fire; the flames hissed and sputtered upon receiving the unwanted moisture. “You’d know about that, I expect. You always talk enough about them.”

“You always talk too much. Especially when you’re in your cups,” Florent snapped. He put his hand down on the counter and took a step beyond that, then pulled himself back upon sensing another movement. He turned and raised his hand. “Wait.”

“No, not now. Pay me so I can go.” Didier spoke lowly, with more consideration in his tone than demand. Then he pushed down Florent’s hand and stood away from the counter. Frequently he looked to the door and the falling night beyond it, and paid little mind to the gold and silver coins counted out to him.

When Florent had finished, he smoothed the coins into a small heap, then held his hands cupped over them. He looked at his hands, his brows drawn tightly together. Then he pushed the coins across the counter. His hands rose reluctantly, and he drew breath to speak, but already Didier was scraping the coins from beneath his fingers. Their metallic rasps overpowered Florent’s words. Florent drew breath again, but by then Didier had swept his payment into a pouch and was already turning away.

“No, no. I need to go,” Didier said, as if Florent had managed to ask. His eyes swept over the room, and then he twisted on his heel. The white of his teeth flashed as his lip curled back, and then it sealed down over them. “I have to join my friends, and talk about how we’re to terrify the countryside.”

More than the two men who’d mocked them looked uneasy at Didier’s words. Some drew away, while others stiffened their shoulders and swung their arms as if contemplating a confrontation. But Didier turned his back on all of them and so didn’t see. He only saw what was outside in the woods as he strode out of the trading post.

* * *

“He’ll have gone too far into the forest for you to have any luck finding him now,” she said behind Florent. Her hand touched the back of his head, then the side of his face so her fingers curled softly under themselves. Then she laid her palm flat against his shoulder, and leaned her head against it. “You can do him no good by standing here, and letting in the cold night air.”

Florent nodded, but failed to turn away from the door. He raised his hand to cover hers, yet leaned his shoulder against the jamb and stared out into the dark. “He said he saw something.”

“He always says that.” A trace of frustration touched her voice.

She pulled at his shoulder but he turned too fast for that, and his face made her step away. He opened his mouth, then shut it and turned back to the door. After a moment, as she was reaching for him again, he folded his arms across his chest.

“I know he’s your friend,” she said slowly. She came into the other half of the doorway, her skirts brushing Florent’s boots as she shivered in the dark. “He’s mine as well. But you and I both know that he has strange moods sometimes, and that he’s told stories before that no one can—”

“He’s a good hunter. A better one than them who were laughing at him. He’s brought in things before, hides and horns and claws, that some say shouldn’t be around to be brought in,” Florent muttered. Then he looked sharply to the side, at something that had rustled by the far corner of the building.

But it was only one of the dogs. The last one to come in for the night, a grizzled old hound with scars from a bear-hunt on his head and haunches. He nosed at Florent’s thigh, then Florent’s hand when Florent gave it to him. Then the dog dropped his head and slipped inside, a strange whine wavering in the air after him.

“Even he’s coming in for the night.” She shivered again, then pulled her shawl further up. Under the cloth her shoulders rolled back, then set firmly in place as she stepped up to him. “I don’t say that Didier might be wrong. But I know he said he didn’t know what it was that he saw. Maybe he saw a shadow. It can happen, even with one who’s hunted here as long as him.”

Florent glanced at her, then back over his shoulder. The old hound had bullied his way to the best place before the fire, but even so he looked far from content there. He whimpered when his eyes met Florent, paws moving restlessly over the floor. Then he abruptly rose and came back to Florent, only to nudge at Florent’s legs as if to urge him inside.

“Or perhaps he didn’t see a shadow. But he still doesn’t know what he saw, with all his experience,” she said. Slower, quieter, more reluctant. “Then—what can you do?”

“He shouldn’t have gone back out. I believe—” Then Florent grimaced and turned away. He caught her eye and flinched from it, as if ashamed, before slumping back against the jamb. He ran his hand over the side of his face, then reached out to lay it on the knob. “I trust him,” Florent said. But he looked again at the black woods, as he shut the door. “But he’s only a single man. And they wouldn’t believe him.”

“Would you have forced them after him and yourself, grumbling all the way? No one knows what might be at the old mine but we know what mischief angry men can make.” She stepped back from the door, then turned. The dog pushed past her and she started to scold him, pulling her skirts up from his dirty feet. Then she paused. She looked up at Florent, then shook her head and turned away. “_I_ know what angry men can work. You have things here to see to. More than that’s in those hills, I’d think.”

Florent spun away from her. He was angry but it lasted only the space of a breath, and she looked after him but did not stop as she walked away. 

He stopped himself roughly, with a hand to the wall. Then he breathed in and out slowly, and looked around more calmly. He saw the board that barred the door at night and picked it up, slotting it into its iron fittings. “I do. I know. But I don’t know. He was different this time. It’s not the same story as before, whatever it’s about.”

She was halfway across the room, bending to check a basket on the floor, but at that she raised her head. Then she came back and put her arms around his neck. When he returned the embrace, she laid her head on his chest.

“He’ll come again, and you can ask him about it,” she said. “He always comes, with a pile of the rarest furs and enough tales to keep us up for a month.”

Florent pursed his lips, looking down at the top of her head. Then he bent and kissed her hair, just where it parted. But his hands on her waist were loose, and when he raised his head, his eyes went to the bar on the door.

* * *

Didier stopped home only to take on fresh water and food before going up the mountainside to the lake. When he arrived, the moon had already passed its highest point and was descending towards the far side, throwing its cold silver light back over the black waters.

The lake had always been unnatural. Once, generations ago, the area had been simply part of the woods, and even now the trees marched up to the very edge of the lake, their roots exposed by the waters’ actions so that the banks were steep and uneven. But then precious metals had been discovered in the soil and so men had dug out the ground to join a great chasm below it, so deep that the miners had told tales of tunnels to strange underground worlds, gates guarded by powerful beings with blood as cold as their faces were beautiful. Monsters had seemed believable enough then.

When all the valuable ore had been carried away, the mine had been abandoned to the elements, and they had cared for the area. It had filled with water after an unusually rainy season and then an avalanche high in the mountains that had diverted several streams into the mine’s gaping maw. More avalanches had piled up boulders and earth along the western bank and blocked the water from draining off along an old road that had led up to the mine. And of course the forest had striven mightily to reclaim what had once been wrenched from it, and now surrounded the lake with trees crowded so close together that in places the ground was no more than bare dirt from the lack of sun. Where the sun did manage to penetrate the leaves, it nurtured a tangled, thorny underbrush that was sometimes blamed for taking stray livestock, as if it was a living thing.

Cradled in such a setting, the lake itself could seem strangely peaceful by comparison. At least on a first impression, but Didier had long since noticed the strange darkness of the waters, far darker than they should be even if the mine went as deep as he’d heard. Too, he’d caught a few fish from the lake, back when he’d first started hunting in the woods around it and knew too little, and he had seen their bizarre deformities. He had never eaten anything caught from the lake. He had never trapped an animal on its banks, or pursued one who’d chosen to flee into its waters.

But all lands had their places where mere people were not welcome, where things lay that were best left untouched and forgotten. As strange and dangerous as such things might be, they were still part of the land. Commonsense alone was sufficient to deal with them—commonsense and respect.

Respect, however, was not something that Didier wished to give to what he’d seen lately in the lake, and commonsense had him take out two daggers as he crouched in the brush by the lakeside. One he stuck into the dirt at his knee, but the other he kept in his hand as he watched the waters.

Strange for the mountains, but there was no wind tonight. The waters rarely rippled, except out in the center where they should be the calmest. Occasionally a bit of white foam would streak across the water, where something had turned it even more turbulently. But it was too far away for Didier to make out any details. He gnawed on his lip, and had to crush his free hand between his knees to keep it still. He had a persistent impatience in his nature, and he was alert to the failing, for it was exactly that for a hunter.

It was hard but he waited. The ripples gradually lengthened and broadened. His knees began to ache and he mouthed a curse as he slowly eased them to the ground, where they’d be better cushioned but less well-positioned for a quick movement. A small wave suddenly rose, then ran sluggishly to the shore where it slapped lightly at the root-ridden bank.

Something black pushed itself out of the waters. A rectangular thing set on a thick, short support. Perhaps a head and a neck, for it turned to and fro like an animal trying to sight something, but it was all dark so Didier couldn’t make out any features of it. Then it sank again, straight down and swiftly, like no piece of debris could do. A living will was behind that sort of movement.

A few yards away, closer to Didier, the waters parted again and the thing—or maybe a second thing, for it came so quickly after the first—rose up. This time it stayed above the lake for longer, so that Didier had time to make out a ridge running down one side of it. Then it turned towards him. Didier stiffened but did not move; he knew he was well-hidden in the brush, and anyway if the thing had any suspicions towards him, movement would only confirm them.

After another moment, the thing vanished beneath the waters in the same manner as the first time. But the ripples continued to crisscross the lake’s surface. They stretched farther and farther, and gradually Didier realized that the thing was swimming towards shore. If it kept on its present course, it would land only ten or so yards from him.

It was moving fast. He had only a minute or so to decide, and he had just put his hand down by his other dagger when he heard a great splashing and then a rough, snuffling breath. Didier jerked down a few inches, then stilled. He slowed his own breath so that it would be quieter.

He couldn’t see it immediately because of a bend in the bank, but he could hear it. The splashing lessened but continued for a long time before ending with an abrupt slap, as if some limb had struck the water after lifting free of it. There was surprisingly little crackling and crunching of the brush: it had come out of the lake but wasn’t quite in the woods yet. It must have a large body, easily as big as a man’s, but somehow it was holding most of it away from both the water and the brush.

Then it was quiet. The woods were not unpopulated—few people dared go into it, certainly, but it was flush with deer and great cats and wolves, and many other animals. Even at night they were not shy about making their presence know. But now Didier heard none of that. Only the occasional wave out on the lake broke the silence.

It was a cold night but sweat was beading at Didier’s hairline, only to chill bitterly once it’d run onto his temple. His knees were on the ground but he was crouching, not sitting, and his thighs had long ago started to ache. He flexed his fingers around his dagger hilts to keep their joints from locking.

The thing abruptly blew out a sputtering blast of a breath, clearing lake-water from its mouth. Then it pushed roughly through the brush, into the woods. For a moment its upper body was in the air, free of any shielding obstacle. The moonlight limned its broad shoulders and heavily-muscled arms, its strange head with the frill running down the back onto its neck, its large round eyes with the circular pupils. It had scales like a face but it stood upright like a man, and as it plunged into the forest, Didier saw it raise a limb and push away a branch from its head.

Didier remained where he was. He listened to the noises of the thing’s passage diminish, then disappear. But still he didn’t rise, and his caution was borne out when several minutes later, another emerged from the lake. This one had a flattened head, with large round eyes that protruded partly above it like those of a frog’s, and from its chin dangled a long, tangled beard covered with algae that glowed green under the moon’s light.

Three more came out of the waters. He watched each pass by him, and then stayed yet longer. Fire burned through his legs and up his back, only to slowly turn to numbness in the cold night. But he stayed, and he watched them return to the water. One took a sheep’s carcass with it. Another, a flat bit of wood that had something carved on it—a road sign. A third had a piece of cloth.

The moon crossed the sky and dipped under the treeline. In the opposite direction, the sun’s rays weakly began to change the night’s blackness to purples and grays. The lake waters were still again, and then Didier rose. His body ached where it hadn’t lost its feeling, and for some time he could barely stand. He had to patiently work the use back into each joint.

When he could, Didier made a careful retreat from the lake. He covered what little tracks he’d left till he was well away from the water. Then he was about to turn towards home, but something glinted from the soil. He glanced sharply around, then began to leave anyway. The stiffness of his muscles covered his shaken nerves, and he had no wish to remain.

But he stopped. He looked back, took a deep breath, and reluctantly made his way over to the glinting object. It was a scale, as large as a plate. Far too large to belong to any known fish, and of the wrong color as well. Black and glossy, it looked as if it had been carved from obsidian.

Didier reached for it, then took back his hand. Deer didn’t return for their shed antlers, but what he’d seen last night were not deer.

Then he remembered the cloth one of them had had. He pressed his lips together, then jerked his head to the side and stooped down. He had the scale up and wrapped into his shirt as quickly as he could, as if he was a thief making away with a jewel. After another look about the woods, Didier made for home without further delay.

* * *

“I heard that a woman living on the western edge of the woods, near the crossroads—she left out a sheet from her laundry, and in the morning it was missing,” Florent said slowly. “I haven’t heard about the sign for the roads there. But someone might be by later, who’s come from that way. We can ask them.”

Didier raised his head sharply, then snorted and flicked the scale across the table. He didn’t flinch when it clattered into a jar of salt, but Florent did. The other man gathered up the scale as Didier sat back in his chair. “We don’t need to ask,” Didier said. He let his arms fall to the chair’s arms. When one limb slipped off, he didn’t raise it but instead left it to dangle as he stared hard at Florent. “You heard the stories when you were a child. You know what they are. And they’ve come again.”

“They can’t. That’s what the stories—and those were fairytales. They’re not supposed to be real.” Florent dropped the scale on the table. Its click on the wood was as sharp as his voice, but he winced. Then he reached for it again, only to have it drawn away from under his fingers.

He looked up and his shoulders hunched as if he would wince again. Then he sighed and sat down, while across from him Didier twisted the scale in his hands, lips pressed together into a thin, hard line. That line softened as Didier ran his thumb along the scale’s edge, then unfolded into a slight frown as Didier paused. He put his thumb into the nick on the scale, then hissed and pulled back his hand. The scale fell again to the table and Didier put his thumb into his mouth.

A moment later he took it out, and both men looked at the smear of blood on it. Then Florent put his hands flat on the table. He pressed down on them and watched the flesh of his fingertips whiten. “Didier. If the stories are true, then they’re too strong for the likes of us. Even if you talked the rest round—”

“I don’t need to talk the rest round,” Didier muttered. He slid his hand across the table, away from Florent. His thumb left a faint filmy streak of blood on the wood as he turned, twisting himself into the corner of the chair. He looked across the room, out a window that was open to the neighboring woods.

“No. No, we can send the scale to the city. I’ve a shipment to send anyway—your furs—and they’ll have the men there. They’ll have the men to know what this is and what to do about it.” Florent picked up the scale and held it between his hands. Then he whipped out a rag and wrapped up the scale, careful but also nervously energetic. He got up from the table and went around it, to where half-tied bundles were stacked in the middle of the room. “Thuram’s supposed to be there this week. He’ll give a fair hearing, no matter how outlandish the tale.”

Didier raised his head and watched Florent busy himself with a tight, emotionless face. Occasionally his hand moved across the table. Then he exhaled sharply and pushed himself back from the table. The legs of his chair scraped roughly against the floor so Florent looked up. Then Florent frowned and began to rise from his packing, but slowly, his near-frantic energy now nowhere to be seen.

“You can do as you think is best.” Then Didier put his hand on the back of his chair. He paused, then turned quickly about it as he pushed it back to the table. His eyes lifted to meet Florent’s before slicing back to the square of woods visible through the window. One of his shoulders slumped. “It’s a good idea. You should send to them.”

With that Didier took his hand from the chair. He made for the door, but Florent came across the room and pulled at his arm. When Didier twisted his arm free, Florent moved before him to block his way. Didier pursed his lips, then sighed and stepped back. He lowered his head but it was no gesture of acquiescence.

“If you think it’s a good idea, then why are you leaving?” Florent asked. He studied the way Didier held himself, how Didier brought up his hand to rub at his nose and eyes, as if tired. Then his voice rose a little, and gained an edge as well. “If you’re so eager to lie now to be pleasant, then why to me? I know you well enough to like the truth better.”

Their eyes met for a moment. Then Didier looked away. The motion made the thumb of his upraised hand run off his nose onto his cheek. He snorted, then laughed and dropped his hand. “No, I do think it’s a good idea. I saw them, all right? I know how strong they are, and I know there’ll have to be more than us to stop them.”

He made as if to move, but it was still too early to say in what direction when Florent put his hand against Didier’s chest. The flash of humor went from Didier’s eyes as he looked up at the other man. It wasn’t replaced with the heat of anger, although the way Didier pushed off Florent’s hand was irritated enough. Didier went past the other man by one step, then stopped. He breathed in deeply and half-turned.

“But what,” Florent said, slow but sharp.

“But I think they’ll be too late. It’s three days to town—still nearly two if you wear out your horse.” Didier smiled as he spoke, and Florent couldn’t help a grudging jerk of the head. They both knew Florent had no horse and could borrow none, and would be using oxen to pull the wagon. “It’s not a useless idea. Extra men would be needed, and they’d come in time to save the city. But not us here.”

Florent grimaced and dropped his gaze. Then he looked up, frowning. “How do you know this? You said they didn’t speak—didn’t make a sound. Maybe—”

“I _know_,” Didier snapped. He turned back around and went another step towards the door. Then another, so that he could put out his hand and touch the frame of it. And he did that instead of taking hold of the knob. His shoulders moved roughly a few times. “I know, because I’ve hunted everything in these woods and you learn after a while. You learn how to read an intention. You learn how to read fear and anger, and how to know when something means to take you. It doesn’t matter what the beast is. And I’ve seen them.”

“Then what are you going to do? You say there’s not enough men here for it, but you’re going to say you’re enough?” Angry now, Florent stalked up to Didier. He didn’t try to seize the man again, but he threw his words at Didier’s back as if they were daggers. “You say—”

Didier turned and Florent stumbled back, though Didier hadn’t raised a hand. Then Florent shook himself, drew himself up. He stared back at Didier, but Didier merely met the angry, concerned gaze. 

The silence stretched on till Florent grew too restless and looked away. He scraped his foot against the floor, dusting his hands against his hips, then frowned at Didier again. “What are you going to do?”

“I didn’t say I was enough. I’m not a fool, Florent. I know I’m not,” Didier said almost calmly. Only the tenseness of his jaw betrayed him. “But they’d be too late. You should send to them, but there has to be something else.”

“Then what? What?” Then Florent jerked up his arms. He looked at his hands before folding his arms across his chest more slowly. “I _want_ to help. Even if I don’t understand, because I wasn’t there to see them, I want to—”

“I know. But you’ll do that by sending to Thuram. That’ll be enough, I hope.” Didier’s voice wavered and he grimaced, disappointed with himself. He rubbed at his cheek again, then let his head loll back as he rolled his shoulders, as if they were cramping. Then he looked at Florent again, tired and dogged. “Send for him. Don’t worry about me. I’ve been in the woods before, and I know them.”

He looked a moment longer. It wasn’t a look that asked, but one that affirmed. Then Didier turned away. He put his hand on the knob and twisted it; behind him Florent raised his hand, then opened his mouth. Then grimaced and shook his head, folding his arms again. As Didier went out the door, Florent stood stiffly with his objections on his face but resignation in his eyes.

“Why you?” Florent said, just as Didier lifted his foot off the last step. “Why only you?”

“You…” Didier stopped. He gazed out before him for a little while, and then he looked over his shoulder. His eyes were understanding, even sympathetic, but for all that they were also implacable. “We have different natures. It comes from that that we fight in different ways. There’s nothing wrong with that. What you are, you are.”

Florent bit his lip, then swung away. His hand rose in almost a dismissive gesture, but almost in the same moment he spoke, and his voice was too bitter to be dismissive. “I don’t see how staying here, while you go, is fighting.”

“Some people stay, and some wander. That’s how it is,” Didier said, but quietly, as he moved away. He didn’t look to see if Florent had heard him. “But both can be hard. And hardest, that’s seeing when to fight for which.”

* * *

The next night was a full moon, a rare piece of fortune for Didier. Of a kind, he thought, his lips twisted wryly. He stood on a deer path far from the lake but still in the thickest part of the woods, where the presence of a human could be considered unnatural by some. Among them would be the hounds whose distant baying Didier could now just hear.

They would still be high in the mountains, from the sound of it. A gust of wind rattling the trees sometimes overwhelmed the faint howls, but all the same they chilled the blood more than the wind. Didier was not a coward, for all that many described him as too excitable in temperament, but his feet twitched restlessly, twisting almost of their own accord in the dirt. They wanted to run back down the mountainside. He clamped his teeth together but still sometimes they would chatter briefly, and it was not because he was cold. He was wrapped up warmly enough against the chill of the night air.

A long, high cry rose above the other hounds’ voices. It was as clear as the moon in the sky was bright, and it had a strange sweetness to it. It seemed like a call, like a ringing bell or perhaps a cry from a human, not animal, throat. Something in it drew at Didier as much as it repelled him.

It began to die away, and then a breeze rustled the leaves over Didier’s head to complete the breaking of the spell. He shook his head hard, then touched the hilt of his dagger where it came out of its leather wrappings. The cold of the metal helped clear his head as well.

Didier looked around till he found a good tree: as broad in girth as two men standing back, with its lower branch still just out of reach when he stretched his hands over his head. He walked around it to see if anything piled up high enough for a stepping-stone, and when he saw that there was nothing, he stood back from the tree. Its glossy leaves were a gleaming dark grey, like polished iron.

After seeing that nothing he wore was hanging loose to be caught by a snag, Didier took a deep breath and let it out. Then he inhaled quickly, and when his lungs had filled to the point that they ached, Didier ran at the tree. His right foot slapped against the trunk. Then the toes of his left foot, curling instinctively inside his boots, struck the tree. They cracked the bark, then began to slide as his hands closed around a branch.

The branch was too wide for Didier to wrap his hands fully about it. He tightened them as much as he could, but his palms slipped over the rough, splintery bark. One of his feet snapped off the trunk and away, making his weight shift dangerously outwards, but he blew out his breath and pulled up on his precarious grip. The bones in his hands groaned. The flesh of his fingertips was crushed till it seemed to come off the bones, but his grip held.

He pulled himself up quickly and threw a leg over the branch. Then he steadied himself on his knee and one hand while reaching for the next-highest branch. He pulled himself fully onto the lower branch, but continued up to the next because its fork into the trunk was broader and would accommodate him better. Then he settled himself as best he could in the uncomfortable space. His hands ached, and here and there he could feel the rawness where the bark had taken off the skin, but they were whole and were still fit for a night’s work.

The hounds called again and Didier looked up sharply, then shook his head at himself and looked where he should have looked at first: down, onto the ground. It’d only been a few minutes, but already the hunt sounded nearly upon him. He could hear the crashing of beasts fleeing before it, and sometimes also the clip of horses’ hooves. The muscles in his back and shoulders pulled as tight as a hide stretched over a curing frame, and no matter how many times he rolled his shoulders, he couldn’t loosen them.

Something crashed through the brush to the left of the tree. Didier ducked over the branch and craned his head, but he only saw the lashing of branches behind whatever it had been. But only a few minutes later, another animal burst through the undergrowth: a doe, running hard enough so that the foam slicking her flanks shone whitely in the moonlight. She leaped onwards, and then a torrent of deer came pouring through the woods, their bodies sometimes so close together that Didier couldn’t see the ground under them.

And they were beautiful deer, with long necks and large eyes full of fright. Their muscles coiled under thick pelts that gleamed under the moon, pelts that were all shades of rich browns and tans, like the different layers of earth exposed in a Cliffside. When they threw up their hides, their under-throats flashed pearly-white. They were perfect deer, deer like nothing Didier had ever caught and he had taken the best of those that lived in the woods.

Eventually the flood thinned. Here and there a doe or a buck seemed to stumble or limp, a jarring sight against their beauty, but they carried desperately on past Didier’s tree. The sound of their hooves faded, then vanished and for a moment it was quiet. Didier breathed out in a long, dragging breath.

When he breathed in, he did so to the soft sounds of approaching feet. Softer than the hooves of the deer, but striking more powerfully against the ground. A sharp bark suddenly cut through the air and Didier hissed without thinking. His hand went to a dagger and he had to use all his will to pull it away. Instead he clutched at the branch beneath himself.

No baying came, nor any more barks or yelps. The hounds came voicelessly to his tree. They were huge beasts, standing nearly as tall as a horse’s withers, with broad chests and narrow hips. Their tails curled over their backs, whip-like, and cut through the brush like knives. Long white canines showed under their lips as they circled the trunk, grinning in the same way as a skull: the expression all in the teeth alone. But they were beautiful. Their heads were carried high on elegant necks and the lines of them were as sweeping and clean as the dive of a bird through the air.

They made no noise, but they never stilled. Constantly moving, they twisted again and again about the tree, sometimes leaping over each other as they jockeyed for position. Their heads twisted and craned, their eyes always fixed on Didier. Then, as if a call had come, they all looked away, behind to the direction from which they’d come.

And the muffled pounding of hooves came again. They were heavier than those of the deer. Coming quick but all the same they were less hurried as well. Desperation didn’t drive them.

Didier put his hand to his dagger again, then moved it to his neck. He dipped his hand beneath his clothes till he touched the chain that hung beneath them, twisting his fingers in it as he muttered softly to himself. Then he took out his hand and carefully rid himself of his daggers and knives. He wrapped a belt around them tightly around them, then around a nearby branch so they wouldn’t slip out. Then he looked down.

The hounds looked up at him. Their eyes shone green in the silvery light, green as the foxfire that rose from the wetter places in the valley. One reared up on its hindlegs so its nose nearly grazed the underside of the branch on which Didier was perched. Its breath was wet but strangely cool.

Then it dropped back, its lips pulled back in a grin that was not friendly but that was not vicious either. It was expectant. It knew what the outcome would be, and so it felt no need to show off its strength.

For all the chills that were running through him then, Didier smiled at that. He didn’t smile to bolster his courage or to mask his fear, and he could see the trace of uncertainty that that instilled in the hounds. He smiled, and then he slid off the branch to the ground below.

The dogs made room for him, then rushed forward so that Didier threw back a hand against the trunk, bracing himself. But the final leap never came. Instead they turned aside, flanks grazing his legs and panting breath chilling his hands, and parted for the horseman, their master.

He rode a black stallion whose darkness went unrelieved by a single white hair, with burning red eyes. It stood at least two hands taller than any horse Didier had ever seen, but it did not make its rider look small by comparison. The horse was only a mount; the man on it was the true sight.

He rode bareback, with no rein in his hands but only the horse’s mane twisted into his blunt, callused fingers. Some rough stuff clothed his legs but from the waist above he was bared to the air. The muscles of his shoulders and arms and chest spoke to a life spent wholly outdoors, to strength earned in truth and not by the backs of others. But beyond that it was difficult to describe—difficult to make him out. Perhaps it was the shadows that fell thickly about him, but his appearance seemed to change wildly from moment to moment. Sometimes his head was bare of anything but dark curls, sometimes it was crowned with a wreath of leaves, and sometimes it wore horns that could stretch into a burgeoning rack of antlers in the blink of an eye. His face would be clean-shaven, and then it would have a thick, tangled beard flowing down onto his chest. Only his eyes and his mouth remained the same: his eyes were narrow and piercing and greener than foxfire, and his mouth smiled.

Didier’s weight shifted and his foot slid on a root. He stumbled but he kept his head up. He didn’t break the lock of his gaze with the rider, even as he struggled to remain on his feet with the hounds around him, waiting for a signal to rush on him.

“You, with the strong heart,” the man finally said. Seemed to say, for his mouth did not move but a deep, rich voice rang out against the trees. “Why do you stand here?”

“Why—” Didier had to swallow then, for his throat had dried out “—why do you hunt here, where the prey is weak? Why do you turn from the true hunt?”

The man’s mouth slowly lost its bright curve. His lips came down over his teeth, like the darkening of gathering stormclouds, and around him his hounds moved eagerly. But his hands remained on his horse’s neck. “Explain yourself. You have earned that, but be care—”

“I cannot be careful when even the gods take no more care in their domains,” Didier snapped. He pushed his hand against the trunk behind him and stepped forward, and immediately he had the dogs pressing up against him, trying to force him back. They bruised his legs but he planted his feet and did not move. “You know what—who comes from the lake every night. You must. But you roam up here, keeping to your mountains, and let them creep into the valley below. What kind of care is that?”

Now the horse lifted its head, fixing Didier with its burning eyes. The rider on its back stiffened. His mouth thinned and his nostrils flared. But he still kept his hands down. “Speak to me of care, then. Speak to me of the people of your valley, who no longer leave their offerings every solstice but put their trust in the wizards from the cities. Speak to me of that.”

“I won’t. You know it already,” Didier admitted. But then he threw up his head, and put back his shoulders. “But does a god need his worshippers to tell him how to look after his lands?”

“It’s a matter of acknowledgement.” The rider inclined his head, and all around the air tasted of ice, of harsh winters with no promise of spring to warm the blood. “Appreciation.”

Didier snorted. He shook his head, then laughed. And the hounds twisted around him till he was half-crushed between their bodies, till their snarls shook his bones. But he did laugh, and then he smiled at the rider with the echoes of his laughter making it an easy smile to give. “Appreciation? This is your land. You appreciate it, or you leave it to those in the lake. And they will kill us with our ungrateful hearts, yes, but with our deaths will go you. You cannot be god of a dead land. So appreciate it. Let it die, let yourself die, and let the world see what appreciation brings.”

Something shifted on the horse’s neck and the hounds raised their maws with sharp, shining teeth filling them.

“You know I speak the truth. You can kill me, but that doesn’t change what I say,” Didier said quickly, harshly. He lifted his hand and a hound snapped out, catching his sleeve in its teeth to drag down his arm. The force of it nearly brought Didier to his knees, but he still kept his head up. “You listen! You call yourself a god but you act like the worst of men. You’re selfish, but you don’t see that even selfishness means you need someone to live, and witness your lack of care. You’re a _fool_.”

The rider’s eyes narrowed. The dog released Didier’s arm, only to clamp his teeth into Didier’s hand. They sliced into his flesh and he hissed as he felt warm blood run out of the hound’s mouth, mixing with spit to drip off his fingers. But he still stood.

“They don’t listen to you. You’ve warned them, you’ve hunted for them, and still they call you a liar, a teller of false stories. A man of changeable moods. Undependable.” The horseman curled his lip with vicious relish about his words. He was beginning to smile again.

“They do,” Didier grunted. His gaze began to drop, but then he inhaled deeply and forced it back to the rider’s eyes. He breathed in again so he could speak clearly. “They do, but they are still my people. I still hunt for them. They may hate me at times, and I may hate them sometimes, but I cannot leave them any more than they can claim that this is not my home. It is, and I know its troubles but I’ll still stand here and tell you to listen. I will still speak for it.”

For a long time the rider did not answer. The pain in Didier’s hand grew till it was nearly all that he saw and felt, save for the wavering figure of the horseman. But he stayed on his feet. He watched the rider frown, then nod, and as the hound released his hand he gasped and staggered against the sudden fire in that limb, but he still stood.

“It’s not so simple as you believe,” the rider said more quietly. He passed one hand over the neck of his horse, his gaze dropping to watch it. A strange sadness filled his voice. “Even gods are not always so free. We must pay as well.”

“What price?” Didier asked.

The rider looked up sharply. Then he smiled, but with his head turning away. He twisted lightly off the back of his horse, then straightened to stand beside it. “To be worshipped, to be loved and feared and desired, to have the power to _change_ what is. But also to never be satisfied. To see that there are ends to dreams, and that they are often not sweet but bloody. To understand what it is to ride night after night to the hunt, to chase and seize your prey only to rise the next evening, and chase again. To not _rest_ as you may do. That is the price.”

Then he ceased speaking, and as his voice died away, the pain suddenly returned. Didier grimaced and brought his hand up to his belly. He tried to wrap his bleeding fingers in his shirt, but his head swam. He saw burning eyes like coal, he smelled tree sap and blood and musk and earth. “Are you asking me to ride with you?” he asked thickly, shaking his head.

“No.” Through the haze it seemed that the rider smiled again. One moment he seemed sad, another malicious, and in a third his face had a fierce joy to it, the joy of one who knew things he could not share but who could not help delighting in them nonetheless. “You ride for me.”

Didier stared. The hurt of his hand was wholly forgotten.

“What you ask—oh, it can be done. But there is a price,” the rider said. “You will be remembered for it, I promise you. They will speak your name to the sun for ages to come, but _now_, when you ask, you must pay first. You have little to your name to them, but to me you have your body, you have your youth, you have your heart. If you will lay down all these things for what you ask, then I will do it. For I must lay down mine to achieve it.”

“My youth,” Didier repeated slowly.

The rider nodded. “You will not age. But there is no youth without old age. And there is no true rest without death.”

“There is no rest when one hides away, either.” Didier paused, then breathed in deeply. He looked up at the sky, at the full moon hanging low. Then he looked around himself at the trees and the hounds, and finally at the rider and the horse. “There are things worth asking for, no matter what the price. This is my land as well as yours, and you know this. I have asked you for something. I have earned the right to ask, and to have an answer. You too have the right to ask me as well, and here is my answer.”

For a last time, the rider smiled. He laid one hand against the crest of his horse’s neck, but the other he stretched towards Didier. After a moment, Didier lifted his hand. It was coated in blood and spit, but the rider seized it and his grip did not slip on the cooling slickness as he pulled Didier towards him.

* * *

Florent laid awake all night, and in the morning he watched her drive the wagon down the road, accompanied by other men of their families. He had an ache in his chest and it did not lift when he saw her safely disappear into the hills, nor when he stood on his front step that night and watched the mountains.

Early the next morning, well before the sun rose, he was awakened by horrible shrieks. They came from nowhere in the valley, but he and all the rest had no hesitation in looking towards the mountains. The cries were like nothing he had ever heard, but he knew without a doubt that they screamed out of the fear and anger that came only at the point of death. They went on till dawn, and then the mountains fell sharply silent. Only the frightened voices of men and women, as they gathered at the trading post, broke it.

The others applauded him when he told of how he’d sent the scale to the city, but railed bitterly when he demanded that they come with him into the woods. No matter that Didier had brought the scale, or that he was still somewhere in the forest, or that he’d done so much for them in the past. In such a time they only remembered his faults, and their own fears. They would not go.

So Florent went on his own. He knew something of tracking but he made no attempt to trace Didier’s steps, and instead went straight for the lake. On its shores he found bodies, strange misshapen bodies with the forms of men and beasts mixed together. All slain, but around them were also many weapons. One carried a part of a road-sign, a piece to a crossroads only a few leagues away from Florent’s home.

He cut off the hand of one corpse and took it back with him, where he put it in a jar of salt. When Thuram from the city came three days later, with his heavy guard and his men with learning, Florent showed him the hand and Thuram asked for the rest of the body. Florent led them to the lake.

They reached it well after dark. The learned men exclaimed and chattered over the bodies, calling excitedly to each other about what it meant, but Florent did not stay to hear it. He wandered deeper into the woods, following some strange impulse of his till he looked up and saw something bound into the branches of a tree. He’d climbed it and taken down the bundle, and was unwrapping it to show Didier’s daggers when a sudden clattering arose.

He was surrounded before he had time to do more than lift his head. Huge dogs, and then behind them a horseman. A strange, flickering figure but one shape made the ache in Florent’s chest blossom into a lancing pain. He cried out from the agony of it. “Didier!”

The horseman reined in so that he stopped in a patch of moonlight. It was Florent’s old friend—but so changed. His face and body, but writ somehow larger than before. The restlessness in his eyes seemed like the restlessness of the wind, and the strength of his shoulders seemed like the might of the mountains. He was himself and then he was greater than that. Greater, and yet he could not still himself; his horse stamped under him and he was always moving with it.

“Didier,” Florent said again, more faltering. He had to look away from that hard, sad, proud gaze and so his eyes fell to the blades in his hand. He glanced up.

“Keep them.” Didier swung his hand around, and showed the long spear that it held. His voice seemed to rise from the trees around them, as a storm wind would rise. “I no longer need them.”

Florent hissed, then braced himself against his friend’s eyes. “Didier. You said you’d come back. You would come and talk, and sit with us.”

“I will come again,” Didier said after a moment. He spoke slowly. Then he shook his head, and came nearer so that the moonlight seemed to tremble over him. “But I will leave. It’s always been that way with me.”

“But…this is different,” Florent whispered. He twisted his hands, then grimaced as one of the knives caught his finger. He moved the finger so he could press it against his other hand, but otherwise did nothing to staunch the bleeding, even though the smell of it made the hounds pant eagerly. “I should have come with you. That’s what—”

Didier shook his head sharply. He pulled back his horse, and after a moment, the hounds came with him. Then he turned his horse’s head away, but he stopped when Florent made to move after him. He looked out at the trees. “No. You could not have come. You were—” he winced, struggling with something, then straightened as it was settled “—you are my friend. But you are not me, and you cannot choose for me, anymore than I can choose for you.”

“But you did. You didn’t ask.” Florent took a step towards the horse, anger giving him temporary bravery. “You didn’t ask.”

“And if I had?” Didier said, whirling sharply. He cocked his head, then smiled. “You wanted me to stay. That was your choice, not mine. Mine was to go. You must understand—I do. You stayed. You will stay, and sometimes I will come and speak to you, and then you must let me go.”

“This is not where you belong,” Florent hissed.

The look Didier gave him chilled all his anger, and then more than that. He took a step back and something like sorrow crossed Didier’s face. But Didier remained on his horse, with his hounds around him, and Florent on the ground.

“This is where I am, and this is where I will be. From time to time.” Didier turned his head as if to sigh, but instead stroked his hand along his horse’s neck. He watched the motion, a careless tilt to his head, and the movement of his hand flowed with the movement of the horse towards the trees, the twist of the hounds around him. “Keep the daggers. Someday someone will come by your place, with a heart that cannot stay by the hearth, and you will pass my knives to them. But still I will come and speak to you, and remember your friendship. And you will remember me, as I was and not as they’ll speak of me now.”

Then the horse stretched out its forelegs, and struck its hooves into the ground. It spun back into the woods and the hounds followed it, and Didier was gone.

Florent remained where he was till Thuram’s men found him. He would not answer their questions, despite the increasing urgency of them, and gave only the curtest replies to Thuram himself. Those things from the lake might come again, as they said, as _Didier_ had said, but somehow Florent could not bring himself to feel fear at the thought of it. Fear, or anger or even determination.

But the lord seemed to understand. He let Florent be, so Florent made his own way home. There he looked at the half-empty jar of salt on the table. His lips tightened, and he made to snatch it up, only to see that his hands were already full. For a long time he looked at the daggers in them.

Then he wrapped them in his best skins, with the blades oiled so they would not rust. He hid them, and dumped out the salt, and then he stood at his doorway. He listened to the sounds of Thuram’s men as they rushed in and out of the woods, and to the faint baying that rose beyond them, from high in the mountains. His chest still ached.

In the morning she returned, and he was glad to see her and he had no guilt in his gladness. He was surprised by himself—but he understood then what Didier had already understood. So he took her by the arms, and kissed her, and they went inside to keep their house, as they always had. As they wished to.

But every full moon after that, he left the door open, and she set out an extra place.


	3. A Spirited Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facing a gruesome death, a man makes a hasty bargain.

In the morning they condemned him to death and in the evening, they led him outside the town walls to be executed. The air was just beginning to turn crisply chill with the onslaught of autumn. The sky was still brilliantly painted by the setting sun, but the howls of wolves descending from the nearby mountains could already be heard.

Executions were done atop a rock with a flattish top. It was barely large enough to accommodate the prisoner, his two guards and the executioner, but its position was ideal: rising several feet from the earth and lying a few hundred yards from the town, it provided a natural platform. It was close enough for onlookers to find seats along the walls, yet far enough so that the inevitable mess was kept at a tolerable—even desirable, in some eyes—distance. A huge iron staple was bolted to the rock, and from it depended a short chain of links as thick as a man’s finger.

The executioner fastened the loose end of the chain to a shackle on the prisoner’s left ankle. He checked the fit, then tightened the shackle so that the prisoner’s lips slightly thinned. Other than that, the prisoner stood quietly by, his eyes occasionally roving the crowded, jeering walls but more often searching out the dark forest on his other side. He seemed not to care where he was or what was to happen to him. At times he looked almost disdainful of the whole proceeding.

Once the shackle was set to the executioner’s satisfaction, he stood up and nodded to the guards. They seized the prisoner’s arms and held him still while the executioner walked behind him. Then the executioner grasped the collar of the prisoner’s shirt in both hands and tore it open. The cloth parted unevenly, sticking in places, and the executioner had to use his fingers to peel it off the long, bloodied welts that crisscrossed the prisoner’s back. He came around the front and cut through the prisoner’s sleeves with a knife, then bundled the cloth under his arm. Then he stood back and regarded the prisoner; the prisoner continued to stare into the woods beyond the executioner’s right shoulder.

“Do you have anything to confess?” the executioner asked.

The prisoner’s eyes flicked to him, then returned to the woods. No sound passed the prisoner’s lips, and finally the executioner stepped away with a diffident nod to the guards. The three of them carefully made their way down the rough steps cut into one side of the rock. One guard stopped at the base to retrieve a bucket, then remounted the rock to liberally splash its contents all about the top and down the steps as he retreated a second time. Some of it splattered over the prisoner’s feet and up onto his trousers, matting the cloth to his calves. He glanced down at the blood, then turned away. His lip could have curled in a grimace, or it could have been the changing shadows.

The three men, executioner and guards, went up the path to the town. They paused at the small gate in the walls, were let in, and disappeared behind the heavy doors.

Along the walls people strolled, chatted, indulged in small snacks as they cast a glance or two at the rock. They shouted expletives, graphic promises of the slow, painful death that would come when night fell. A few tried to throw stones at the prisoner, but the distance was far too great. At any rate, the guards who stood here and there soon put a stop to that mischief, to widespread approval: it would do no good to accidentally brain the prisoner, and so circumvent his sentence for him.

And the prisoner stood on the rock, with its drying coat of blood. He paid no attention to them.

* * *

Once the sun had completely dipped under the horizon, the onlookers on the walls rapidly thinned till only the guards were left. Then even the guards disappeared from the walls. They were not deserting their duties, but their duties were to watch and that could be done as easily, and in far greater comfort, from the small guardhouses that were spaced every several hundred feet. There was no need to stand out on the bare wall merely to keep an eye on a doomed man.

None of them were watching when the prisoner finally broke his pose. He began to bend over, only to draw his hands into his chest and grimace. His muscles had stiffened and he had to roll his shoulders and swing his hips a few times before he could manage a crouch. The chain between the manacles on his hands hung in the way, so he looped it around his right wrist. Then he looked again at the shackle on his ankle.

It was a good, strong lock. The hinge alone probably could have been used to smash wood, if it hadn’t—the prisoner looked sharply up. He stared hard into the woods as the wolf howl soared ever higher. When it finally ended, he shook himself roughly and bent again. He took hold of his foot with one hand, then put down the other on the rock as his balance shifted. His fingers came down on sticky blood and he grimaced. The prisoner lifted his hand, then planted it firmly against the rock. He leaned on it as he raised his foot on its toes, and then farther, straightening it as far as the joint would allow.

But the meeting of his foot and leg still formed an angle and not a straight line. The shackle would slide till it bumped the top of the prisoner’s foot but no farther. A sharp, impatient exhale escaped the man. He put his foot down and looked balefully up into the woods, as if his gaze alone could hold back the approaching wolves.

Instead it might have summoned them. At that moment a dark shape hulked out of the trees. The wolf raised a wary head: its nostrils flared as it scented the pig’s blood splashed over the rock, but it looked well around before finally slipping back into the woods. Regular hunting parties did issue from the town, and wolves were a popular target.

A few moments later, barely enough time for a pair of quick breaths, the wolf returned in the company of several more. They fanned out with mouths gaping wide in expectant grins, tongues lolling between sharp teeth. The first wolf pulled forward one end of the lopsided semicircle, drawing it like a noose around the rock while the others began to snap and snarl at the prisoner.

The prisoner tensed but it was hardly a sign of fear, for in the next moment he had snapped back at them. It was a more than credible imitation, enough to give the wolves pause as they considered the development. But then the prisoner dropped his head. He seized the shackle with both hands as if he meant to have it off, and never mind whether his foot went with it.

Despite his determination, it was a fatal error. The wolves took the dropped head as a signal of surrender and hesitated no longer. Their lean bodies swooped easily over the intervening ground, then coiled to leap up onto the rock.

Too late the prisoner heard them. He threw up his head, then his hands, which drew their chain tight between them as a makeshift weapon. The first wolf was already nearly upon him, and the prisoner hissed as he saw that his hands would not come up in time to block its teeth.

Then the wolf was down on him. Its paws struck his shoulder and thigh before glancing awkwardly off. He’d pushed out his hands at its belly but it was already twisting away, stumbling off him with an odd strained whimper. The wolf hopped to the side of the rock, looking at something behind the prisoner. It dipped its head twice, each time lowering it farther, before abruptly leaping off the rock. The wolf whimpered again, then retreated to huddle with its fellows, who all stood well clear of the rock with tails curled tightly between their hindlegs.

The prisoner stared at them, then turned sharply around. His bare feet slipped on the blood and he nearly tipped over before catching himself heavily on his hands. He caught his breath, looking at his hands, then slowly raised his head. His eyes widened a little, and then they narrowed as he sat back on his feet and shook his head. More than a little bitter insouciance shaped the dry smile he gave the newcomer. “Well, well, well,” he said. “In my hour of darkest need.”

Between the prisoner and the wall was a horseman. He rode a black horse and led a white one, and he himself was garbed from head to toe in black. A dark scarf muffled his face up to his solemn eyes, but now he drew that down so he could speak. “I’ll save you if you help me,” he replied in a low, soft voice. “But you have to do as I say. If you don’t—”

“Spare me the righteousness, Raúl.” The prisoner glanced almost carelessly over his shoulder, then lifted his brows when he saw the wolves still waiting there. He looked back at the horseman, idly picking the chain between his hands. “You need what I can do, and I’d like not to be eaten over some idiots’ injured pride. That’s all.”

The horseman raised his head a little. His lips thinned under a thunderous brow. But then he turned away, gazing towards the rising moon. The anger drained from his face, and when he spoke again, he did so in a detached, strangely cold manner. “Then you agree?”

For all his brave words, the prisoner seemed as reluctant as the horseman. He looked up at the other man, frowning. Then something near the horse’s rump caught his attention and he looked at it, but the horseman slipped his hand back beneath his cloak. The prisoner frowned even more at that. He opened his mouth, then closed it tightly as he closely regarded the horseman.

Eventually the horseman betrayed some impatience. He shifted in the saddle so his horse tossed its head, sweeping his gaze back to the prisoner. “You have to answer now,” he said. His voice was sharp, but not with irritation. It was closer to a warning, with a strange softened end as if a plea lurked beneath the man’s words. “Answer now and be bound by it.”

“You always were a nobleman’s nobleman, but today you sound as haughty as the moon,” the prisoner said slowly. His voice curled to make a viper’s barb of his words, but his eyes were more puzzled.

The horseman’s face tightened. For a moment it seemed as if he meant to turn away, but then he leaned forward in the saddle. His arms remained unseen behind his cloak. “Villa. Do you want to come with me?”

The prisoner drew back, still hesitant. He parted his lips, but then a wolf snarled behind him and he stiffened. Then his eyes went up to the wall, where a torch had just flared to life. His upper lip drew back in its own snarl and he threw back his shoulders, shaking off the remainder of his uncertainty. “Yes, I’ll come. Come on! They’ve seen you!”

“They’ve not,” said the horseman. He brought his horse nearer, but with a peculiar slowness.

“What now? Yes, I’ll obey you,” the prisoner snapped. His lips twisted disgustedly around his words, but he spoke firmly enough. Then he laughed and flipped his hands rudely at the horseman. “You look as if you wished I’d turned you down yet again.”

At that the horseman flinched. The folds of his cloak shifted and the horseman hissed sharply when he realized what had happened. He thrust out an arm and reached around himself, hastily tucking the cloak back into place. 

The wolves fell silent again as the horseman looked up at the prisoner, shoulders still hunched. Then he grimaced and straightened. He looked again at the prisoner before nodding; the chains suddenly fell away from the prisoner. The shackle clanked noisily against the rock before it tumbled off the edge, dangling from the staple with its ends open.

The prisoner didn’t start at the sound, though the metallic clinks echoed loudly in the sudden quiet. He was staring at the horseman.

“I wish you hadn’t. It would have been better for you,” the horseman said abruptly. Then he turned away, bringing his horse around so that the other horse, the white one, was presented to the prisoner. “Come. We’ve a long way to travel tonight.”

Half a curse dropped from the prisoner’s mouth. The other half he swallowed roughly as he thrust himself down from the rock. He jumped to the ground and came up to the white horse, flinging himself onto its back as if he meant to break it. The horse neighed in protest and he grunted at it, dragging on the reins till they came from the other man’s hand. Then he spurred his horse to abreast of the black one, so that he could jerk his chin at the other man. “Well, I gave my word. And I already knew you never make an honest offer, so I can’t say that I had no warning.”

“I still wish you’d said no,” said the first man. He glanced over his shoulder, his scarf rewrapped about his face. Then he turned forward, and kicked his horse so it leaped forwards.

The other man followed closely behind, and soon they had disappeared down the road that ran before the town. At the rock, the wolves lingered a little. One bold one went up and sniffed at the blood, but then turned quickly away. They cast a last, disappointed look at it, then slipped back into the woods.

* * *

Once they’d stopped at an inn, David wasted no time ordering up hot water and soap so he could wash the blood from his feet. He thought briefly about asking Raúl whether the other man objected, but then decided he’d take up that argument after he’d scrubbed off the grime and made himself into something more like a man, less like a trapped animal. It’d been two weeks in prison before they’d finally made up their minds what to do with him.

At any rate, he couldn’t find Raúl. The man had disappeared as soon as they’d been shown into their rooms—the best that this provincial place had, but still utterly palatial compared to the hole in which David had spent the last thirteen days. One moment David had been rubbing his chafed wrists, looking at the washbasin because already it seemed an alien thing to him, and then the next he’d turned and Raúl had vanished.

For a moment David stood there, wondering if—then he shook his head. He was tired and hungry, and still almost doubtful that he was indeed alive. When Raúl returned, he could take it up with the other man, but no earlier.

The water came up soon afterward, accompanied by a fresh change of clothing. When questioned, the maid only referred him to his “lord,” which made David grimace. He grimaced again upon shaking out the clothing and finding that it was sized perfectly to him. But despite that, the feel of fresh clean linen…he had to drag himself from the garments before his dirty, cracked-nailed hands marred them. Then he fell upon the soap and water with a vengeance.

In prison they’d let him shave and have his hair cut before his execution. They’d also allowed a doctor to treat his whipping marks, so that infection wouldn’t kill him first, but hardly with a careful hand. The man had done his duty and no more, and so David was still only half-dressed before the mirror, gingerly working a wet cloth over the welts, when Raúl came into the room.

The other man looked at David, then at the mirror. His eyes went across the reflected lash marks and he pursed his mouth. “Did you ask for a doctor?”

“You were a little late for that,” David muttered. After another moment, he resumed wiping at his back. His shirt was across the room and could stay there; he felt no shame at how his back looked, only anger, and that was not affected by what Raúl thought of it. “Oh, no, they’re clean and healing. But a doctor wouldn’t be able to do anything about them except promise to make them look better and then fail, so don’t bother.”

Raúl pursed his lips again, then nodded dismissively. He was still muffled up nearly to his eyes as he went to the counter by David, but as he bent towards the washbasin, his cloak caught on something and began to unravel. He stopped, then straightened. The cloak rippled about him.

David drew the cloth a last time over the back of his neck, then tossed it into a bucket of dirty water. He looked to the side, sweeping his gaze up and down Raúl’s stony profile. Then he looked down. “Let me see.”

The other man breathed in sharply and half-spun away. He seemed offended but he went no farther. When David reached out, Raúl flinched but didn’t lift a hand to obstruct David.

A few tugs had the cloak open, but they only had a few lanterns for light so it was still difficult to see. David tried to pull up the heavy cloth this way and that, but some shadow always seemed to fall into the way. Then he jerked up his head, and took back his hand. He watched silently as Raúl took off the cloak with a curt tug. The cloth dropped to the floor as if it was lined with lead.

Of course Raúl was dressed well. Riding clothes, so less elaborate than in David’s memories, but the boots had silver-encrusted heels and spurs, and the doublet was fashionably darted and tucked to flatter the other man’s slightly stocky figure. Silver-threaded lace dripped from Raúl’s sleeves and flowed around his throat to spill down his chest, as his doublet was wholly unbuttoned. A fold of shirt dipped out between the two halves of the doublet, as if Raúl hadn’t tucked it properly into place when he had dressed.

Too much of it, David thought. He absently lifted his gaze, only to start when he found Raúl smiling at him. It was a knowing, tired smile, with a complete lack of expectation. It seemed alien on the other man’s face.

“There,” Raúl finally said. He put down his hand and pulled his tail out so it didn’t blend so well into the dark stuff of his hose.

It was about three-quarters the length of his arm, bushing out close to him but then swiftly tapering away. At its widest, it looked to be the span of two men’s palms pushed together, but that might have been enhanced by the springiness of its fur. The strands were coarse and straight and black, but as Raúl bent the tail in his hand, they caught yellow and red glints from the lantern-light. Once the pressure of his fingers had been removed, the fur swiftly rose again to remove any impressions left by his hand.

He held it straight, then abruptly pushed it back behind himself. His fingertips flicked dismissively at the end of the push. Raúl looked down at the floor, then sighed and raised his eyes to David’s face. His shoulders tipped forward in expectation against the blow.

“And I was the one they wanted to kill for witchcraft,” David said after a few moments. He ducked his head and rubbed at his lip, then laughed shortly. Then he crossed the room for his shirt. He shook out its folds and threaded his hands into the sleeves. “Very well, I suppose several hundred years in the company of demons can’t be any worse than one lifetime among the living.”

The other man’s sharp inhale made David look over, but Raúl was staring thoughtfully at the wall. Beyond him, on the floor, the flickering light had cast his shadow. Sometimes the shadow had the tail, and sometimes not. Sometimes it seemed much smaller than it should have been as well. Then Raúl snorted. He looked down, amused. “You’re bound to me, not in place of me. Once you’ve done me your service, you’re free to go.”

“Service? You decide what that means, I suppose?” David came back and stared into the bloodied water in the basin. Then he lowered his hands so he could grip the sides of the basin as he looked at Raúl. His voice had grown harsh with accusation.

Raúl raised a solemn, almost serene face to meet David’s stare. He put out his hand, stopped when David flinched, and then extended it so he could pull David’s shirt out of danger of soaking in the dirty water. Then he moved behind David, so quietly and sleekly that it hardly seemed a movement and so David didn’t flinch.

Something light and cool touched David’s back. For some reason he looked forward, into the looking-glass hanging above the wash-basin. The black of Raúl’s head rose above the line of David’s bare shoulder, which looked quite pale in comparison. Pale but crisp, for a strange dark aura seemed to cling to Raúl’s head, blurring its shape. When David squinted, two rough triangles sprang from Raúl’s hair, only to disappear when he opened his eyes more widely.

He hissed and stiffened. The touch on his back slowed, but did not stop as it crossed onto one of the welts. As light as the touch was, it felt like the end of a heated poker against the bruised skin. But then, as David was parting his lips to protest, a soothing chill swept into his skin. It spread in the wake of the fingertip—for that was what the touch was—and in one spot deepened when the fingertip rocked slightly, bringing more of it into contact with David’s back.

David inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. Then he set his teeth and opened his eyes, only to find that his head had drooped of its own accord. He hissed to himself and lifted his hands from the wash-basin. The fingertip moved down his back in a slow zigzag. Whenever it crossed his spine, a strange, almost pleasurable chill would shiver outwards towards his head and his toes. He tried to speak more than once, but ran out of breath or found his jaw trembling too much. His irritation struggled to breach the far stronger sensations circulating through him.

Then it ended. For a moment longer the coolness lasted, slowing David’s wits and body. He breathed in abruptly and the passage of air through his mouth seemed unbearably rough, shocking his nerves. Then he exhaled and threw on his shirt. He was so rough about it that his head missed the opening and he had to struggle for several seconds before he finally felt it out with his fingers. Once he had the collar, he pulled his head through it and then put back his hands to tug the shirt down his back.

He stopped. Raúl moved to his left. The other man gazed absently about the room, then similarly at David. Then he shrugged and turned away. “You’ll ride better without that troubling you,” Raúl said. “I want to make the capital by tomorrow night.”

He crossed the room to the window, and more than that David didn’t see as he was rolling his shirt back up. At first David tried to twist about and catch a look at his back in the mirror, but the glass was too small and hung too high on the wall. He dropped the hem of his shirt and studied the glass, then leaned up and carefully took it off its nail. Then he could angle it properly to confirm what his hands had already told him: his welts were healed, his back unmarred. Or it appeared so, at any rate.

David put the mirror back on the wall. He wasn’t as careful as he could have been and it rattled loudly as he let go of it. “It’s a neat trick, that.”

Then he looked over his shoulder. Raúl had opened one of the shutters and had poked his head through the slight opening. The man twisted this way and that, and at one point David thought he glimpsed Raúl sniffing the air. But then Raúl withdrew his head, and firmly shut and latched the shutter. He glanced at David as if he hadn’t heard David, then walked towards the door.

“You can have the bed. I won’t need it.” His cloak swirled over him, so that for a moment Raúl was completely hidden beneath it. When it settled on his shoulders, showing that he still remained a man, it was almost a disappointment. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Yes, my _lord_,” David muttered irritably.

But the door shut on his words; Raúl hadn’t heard that either. David stood and looked at himself in the mirror, then threw up a hand against his own reflection as he spun on his heel. He needed his sleep, of course. That might be what mattered, but he hardly liked how it mattered.

* * *

The inn was second-rate, but it made up for its quality with quantity with respect to its food offerings, and David had not had a decent meal in so long that his stomach nearly twisted out of his body at the sight of the spread. He had filled up his plate and cleaned it, and was helping himself to a second plate’s worth when he sensed a presence at his back.

He’d heard no footsteps, but when he turned, Raúl was there. The other man looked over David and a trace of shame worked its way into the hunger gnawing at David. Then David pressed his lips together and raised his chin; perhaps it was unfashionable to show much appetite, but prison was unfashionable as well. The one made it hardly worth the effort to pretend the other didn’t also exist.

But Raúl barely glanced at David’s plate before coming up to the sideboard himself. He reached for a plate, but the innkeeper had seen him too and came over to be obsequious before Raúl could take it. They exchanged pleasantries while David slowly forced his breath out through gritted teeth.

He took a seat at one of the long tables in the inn’s common room. Soon Raúl extricated himself from the innkeeper and addressed himself to the food. The man didn’t seem particularly interested in what he took—he avoided neither salt, nor showed any excitement upon coming across the beans—but he served himself a substantial amount. After he’d seated himself, he proceeded to eat with the same lack of interest, but with surprising speed. Of course it was married to graceful manners, but all the same, his appetite made David raise his brows.

Raúl looked up. He left his fork pushed into a bit of pastry.

“I take it whatever kept you out last night was settled satisfactorily,” David said dryly. “Men don’t usually eat so well when they’re troubled.”

“Don’t they.” But Raúl spoke as if merely making an observation. He looked away and picked up the piece of pastry, putting it in his mouth without the guidance of his eyes. “Did you sleep?”

David snorted and pushed aside his cleared plate. “I can ride.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Raúl said, his eyes returning to David.

“Isn’t it?” For a few moments they regarded each other. Then David shrugged and turned his knees out from under the table. “Well, if you’re so concerned, I did sleep. Very well. My cell didn’t even have a heap of straw, so it’s a nice change to sleep somewhere where I don’t have to worry about the rats nibbling on my face.”

He stood and Raúl moved his head as if to speak, perhaps to stop David. But after a moment Raúl continued the motion, so it appeared he was only stretching a cramp in his neck. He did put up his hand to his shoulder as if that was the case. Then he resumed eating.

After a moment, David exhaled slowly and put out his foot. Then he took it back. He curled his hands into fists, uncurled them and pressed them flat against his thighs, and then he turned sharply. “Did you want to know why I was on that rock? Or do you already know?”

He spoke just as Raúl was spooning something into his mouth. The other man tucked in his chin, but it seemed to be merely a gesture, not a sign that he was choking. Raúl chewed and swallowed, and then looked up slowly. The light from the door slanted over his eyes, showing how the flesh around them was dark and a little swollen. “I don’t know why,” he said tiredly. “I only know if it was witchcraft, then they were wrong. You can tell me if you like, but I don’t need to know their reasons.”

“You would know witchcraft well enough for that now,” David said savagely. His voice rose and he thought he heard someone moving about behind them. He looked over his shoulder, but Raúl did not. “That’s why you don’t care, then.”

Raúl glanced at his plate. His upper lip curled slightly, then thinned into a straight line as he put his spoon down. He bowed his head and rubbed one finger along the side of his nose. “Does it matter that much to you?”

“No. You didn’t care before, so that’s no great change.” A buried laugh made David’s voice shake. He turned around again, so he could see both the door to the kitchen and the door to the road. No one was standing at either, or beyond them in any place that he could see. But they weren’t so alone as that, he knew. “Then did you just come across me, and take pity on me? If you didn’t know, then—”

“Yes,” Raúl said curtly. He let the silence in the room fatten on David’s surprise and outrage before he looked up. He was angry as well, angry enough to take David aback, but his anger was already dying in his eyes. Then he turned away. He put his plate to the side, and stood from the table. “I was on my way to the capital. I didn’t know where you were—where you’d gone after you left there. But I saw you from the road and I had need of help, and you said yes to me.”

He twisted around David, heading for the door. David let him go ahead a few steps, then caught up to his back. “Do you expect me to thank you for that?”

The other man glanced over his shoulder, then turned away. Amusement touched the shrug he gave David and the way he replied. “Of course not, Villa. Did you leave anything upstairs?”

The question made no sense to David. He stepped to the side to better see Raúl’s face, but instead discovered that someone had already led out their horses into the courtyard. He was still holding the reins, waiting patiently. A tall man about David’s age, dressed in fine but dark clothing. He had sandy, short hair and his eyes were narrowed against the bright morning sun. He nodded to Raúl, who hesitated before walking out. Then he tossed the reins at Raúl and David’s eyes followed that, and when Raúl caught them, David cursed and looked back to the man, who was no longer there. Already David couldn’t remember what he had worn, or much of his face except for his eyes, which had seemed to glow.

“We’re leaving,” Raúl said abruptly. He looked at David and the same strange flash of green was in his eyes. Then it wasn’t, and his eyes were the soft sad black they’d always been.

He mounted his horse, and reached over to take the reins of David’s. Then he held them out. After a moment, David came and took them. He had nothing to leave upstairs.

* * *

They traveled quietly, with little speech between them except for what was necessary. For much of the remaining leg they had the roads to themselves, when at this time of year, they should have been battling against caravans going to the great trading fairs. An occasional horseman might appear on the horizon, but would then vanish immediately, as if fleeing from them.

The roadside sights were hardly reassuring either. It was fertile land, and upon first glance the fields did seem lush and prosperous. But closer examination revealed that weeds tangled unchecked with the actual crop, and both kinds of plant spilled messily over borders that should have been well-tended and crisp. Here and there a farm still looked to be cared for, but that was the exception.

About a mile away, the capital’s walls began to emerge out of the drifting mists. It was growing dark, but they still had a good few hours in which they could safely travel, and they would need to if Raúl wished to meet the goal he’d set. Yet Raúl began to slow his horse, and then he brought it to a complete halt; after a moment, David irritably reined in his own.

He turned back and Raúl looked at him, but absently. The other man was more concerned with whatever it was that he could make out in the distance, although to David’s eye that was only the great stone walls of the city.

“Why the delay?” David finally asked. “Have you changed your mind?”

Raúl looked at him again. Then the other man grimaced and lowered his head. He pulled at his nose and muttered to himself before finally throwing back his shoulders. He sighed. “I forgot to find a sword for you. This is the wrong road—we’ll have to go around.”

“This road goes to the Mestalla Gate. It’ll let us into the city, if that’s what you’re worried about. I live—I used to live by there.” David twisted in the saddle to look at the walls, then turned back in time to glimpse Raúl purse his lips, as he always did when disapproving without caring to offer an explanation. It set David’s teeth on edge. He had to swallow before he could speak again. “What’s wrong with it? Why do I need a sword?”

“Because the gate’s haunted,” Raúl said after a moment. His eyes flicked to David, and then his brows rose in surprise when David waited for the explanation. “No one uses it at night now, and it’ll be night by the time we arrive. They say a demon waits by the bridge.”

David grinned. He’d heard that sort of story before, slurred drunkenly in some filthy den or whispered at a boring theatrical show. “They say?”

“I haven’t used it since the stories started.” Then Raúl looked away, over the fields to his left. His fingers coiled a rein around them, then slowly let it slide free. “I’ll be allowed to pass. But I don’t know about you.”

But he made no move to leave, and neither did David. A breeze slithered over the surrounding fields, setting the long stalks to rustling. It almost sounded like the whispers of a crowd.

“You think it really is haunted,” David eventually said, more soberly than before. Then he cursed and pulled his horse back from its fidgeting. A moment later he realized that the beast had merely been responding to his own impatient movements, and with more than a little irritation he willed his feet to hold still. “You believe this they.”

Raúl exhaled loudly but slowly, a show of annoyance but hardly a warning. For in the next moment he abruptly wheeled about, wrenching his horse’s head around so roughly that it neighed in protest. But he spared no care or even notice for that; his burning eyes fixed only on David. “I don’t believe. I _know_. I—”

“That other servant of yours tell you, then? Why don’t you call him back and ask him to lead my horse again?” David spat out. He didn’t think about it. Meeting antagonism with the same merely seemed the natural action for him to take.

The other man didn’t agree. His brows rose and he sat back sharply in the saddle, nearly sharp enough to have been a flinch. But his eyes were still too hot for that. He pursed his lips, then thinned them out. “That was Iker. I’m not his master.”

“Have you tried?” Then David twisted about and looked at the sky. It was growing darker as they argued, and whatever awaited them at the bridge into the city, what awaited them if they stayed out in the fields could hardly be considered any better. “Never mind. There’s no point in calling another when you’ve me already.” He looked slantwise at the other man. “A fine service I’d do for you out here, I think you’d agree. Lend me your dagger. We’ll see how well I’ve learned to take care of myself since I left.”

Raúl looked for a while at him. The man’s hands knotted about his reins, then curled up about the knots. But no further argument came from him. As David’s impatience began to prickle again, Raúl abruptly flicked his hands free of the reins. Then he bent down over the side closest to David; his cloak hid his actions.

A moment later, he straightened up and in his hand was a long dagger. It had no sheath and as David took it, he idly noted that no crest marked the handle either. Instead fine silver engravings crusted around the leather wrappings of the hilt. They portrayed some sort of chase…he picked out the heads of dogs, or perhaps wolves, capping the ends of the crossbar, and then the pommel was molded into the form of some fleeing beast.

Before he could discern what the animal was, the sound of hoofbeats made David look up. He found himself being left in Raúl’s wake and angrily spurred his horse after the other man till they were abreast again.

“What’s the point of binding me to service if you’ll only lose me afterward?” David asked.

For that he received a distant frown; Raúl spared him notice but not attention. The underlying contempt of the gesture ate at David but he held his peace, choosing instead to strap the dagger to his saddle, where it’d lie in easy reach but would pose no danger of an unfortunate accident.

“They say the demon appears in the form of a beautiful woman, who hails you and asks for a ride.” Raúl touched his heels to his horse so it slightly increased its pace. He looked at the sky above them, then brushed some hair out of his eyes. His hand swept over his head, stopped as if it’d caught on something, and then he tore it roughly from his head, his lips twisting up in a grimace. He began to look at David, then abruptly looked at the sky again. “When you let her up into the saddle—”

“Then I won’t let her up,” David muttered. Something moving to his left snatched at his gaze, but when he turned to look, he saw only some bird flapping away over the fields. “Simple enough.”

After a moment he turned back and Raúl was gazing at him. Strange eyes, strange and solemn, and David might almost persuade himself that worry was there as well. But then Raúl looked down, at the reins threaded through his hands. He quickened their pace again.

* * *

The Mestalla Gate had fallen into a surprising degree of disrepair since last David had passed through it. Beyond the bridge, the stone entrance still looked solid enough, but the road leading up to the gate was pitted and the holes had filled with scum-covered water. Weeds had overgrown the edges and pushed up the cobblestones that lined the road so that they formed a cracked, wildly uneven surface. They forced the horses to slow to barely a snail’s pace.

The bridge itself had lost its roof and its naked trusses stuck up like jagged teeth. Here and there the wooden beams carried a faint greenish fluorescence from mold, and as they reached the end of the bridge, small whitish things appeared on the ground. David leaned over to look more closely at one and found it to be the skeleton of a fish. A few steps on, the empty shells of clams and mussels mixed into the fishbones as they walked over someone’s refuse pile.

Raúl halted his horse without warning David, and David had a rough moment keeping his own mount from running directly into the rump of Raúl’s. But the other man paid no mind to that, or to David’s demand for an explanation afterward. Instead he drew himself straight in the saddle and looked slowly, carefully around himself. That eerie glow filled his eyes as if it was being poured slowly into them. Then he blinked, and the light went away.

“All right,” Raúl said softly. He spoke more to himself than to David, but he glanced over his shoulder at David before he signaled to his horse.

They approached the bridge together. It was dark and lonely, and much of its unnerving quality came from that very lack of life, but there was no greater threat than that. The first step of Raúl’s horse onto the timbers clicked crisply through the air.

The horse faltered and Raúl gave it a moment to regain its courage, then kneed it forward. It snorted uncertainly but it obeyed, and within a breath they were fully on the bridge. Mere story, David thought.

Then his horse stopped. They were going slowly enough so that the suddenness of it didn’t seriously threaten to throw him from the saddle, but it was still disconcerting. He seized the horn of his saddle and the hilt of Raúl’s dagger, then steadied himself. Then he looked around, but nothing new came into his sight. He looked up and started: he’d only halted for a few moments, but already Raúl’s horse was walking off the far end of the bridge, several yards away.

David opened his mouth to hail the other man and a low laugh filled the air.

It hadn’t come from him. He shut his mouth and tightened his grip on the dagger. The laugh had come from his right, and when he looked down, a youth was standing there on the bridge, only a yard or so away.

He smiled pleasantly at David. The sun had set more than an hour ago and it was almost completely dark, yet David could easily make out the youth’s features. Short and slight, with a few freckles dusting the bridge of the nose so he looked little more than a boy. His teeth were very white, nearly as white as the crescent moon overhead. “Good evening.”

The cut of his clothes was appropriate for that of a page to one of the lesser lords. He had a lot of thick dark hair but kept it cropped shorter than Raúl’s, more like the fashion of three or four years ago. He wasn’t quite in David’s way but if he was quick, he could easily keep David from proceeding further.

“Are you going home, Lord Villa?” said the youth.

At that David flinched. He’d meant not to give any answer but that touched too deeply. “I’m no lord now.”

The youth frowned. Beyond him David could see a dim, hazy figure turning towards them, but then the youth lifted his hand, effortlessly drawing David’s attention back to him. “Oh? But I’ve heard so much about you.”

And the youth smiled again. The whiteness of his teeth did not blind David so much as mesmerize him, like how a dancing mote of light would fascinate a cat. David blinked only when his horse shifted nervously beneath him, and then he sucked in a breath, startled at how close the youth had come. His eyes went to the youth’s hand, mere inches from his rein, before flicking urgently to the youth’s face, which he caught in the act of snarling.

The snarl was unexpectedly vicious, peeling the youth’s lips back to show unusually long, pointed canines, and David blinked again. Then he threw up his head and jerked on the reins, causing the horse to sidestep the youth’s sudden snatch at him.

“Villa!” someone called. Raúl, dragging his horse back and forth across the far end of the bridge. His face shone wanly in the dim efflorescence of the moldy bridge. He looked anxious. “Villa!”

David frowned, then gasped and twisted sharply as something tore across his right leg. He looked down, then yanked free the dagger from the saddle as his horse, too frightened now to stand, launched itself violently towards the end of the bridge. 

The leap threw David heavily forward onto the horse’s neck. He flung out his arm to keep from stabbing it, then scrabbled at the mane with his free hand. Behind him came a frustrated, ferocious roar, and then he felt a buffeting at his back. A weight thumped down onto the horse’s hindquarters, rocking the saddle. David jabbed blindly at it with the dagger and struck something; another roar deafened his left ear as hot, fetid breath came down on his head.

He stabbed at it again and it tumbled off to the right, but grabbed his leg so he was nearly dragged off as well. The dagger was wrenched from David’s grasp, but he didn’t dwell on it. Instead he seized handfuls of his horse’s mane and hauled himself back into the saddle, kicking wildly at the thing on his leg. Sharp claws ripped through his hose and scored the leather of his boot, nicking his ankle. They jerked down, then abruptly fell away so that he barely avoided falling over the opposite side of the horse at the sudden lack of resistance. At that moment, his horse’s hooves clattered off the bridge and onto the cobblestones of the road.

David hooked his arm over the horse’s neck and his fingertips touched leather that immediately flapped away. He cursed and lunged for it, then wrapped the rein around his hand and wheeled his horse around. It would rather have kept running and reared up on its hind-legs in protest, whinnying shrilly. All David could do was cling to the beast’s neck and hope not to fall to break his own.

From his elevated seat, he glimpsed Raúl with one arm flung out. Then the horse’s neck briefly intervened. When the horse, and with it David, came down, Raúl had lowered his arm but he was standing in his stirrups. The tail of his horse was arched high, and the beast had all of its legs driven straight at the ground. Rumbling, rough snarls filled the air.

Past him on the bridge, the demon gnashed its teeth and prowled viciously but impotently back and forth across the bridge’s end. It hadn’t grown any taller but it had gained greatly in bulk, so that the silvery hilt stuck in one shoulder seemed like a lady’s brooch, a fragile jewel compared to the powerful swells of muscle that strained the demon’s furry hide. In form the demon had the general shape of a fox, but grossly distorted as if seen through the lens of a nightmare. Its teeth were as long as a man’s hand.

It lashed its tail a last time, then spun about and leaped up, higher than the bridge’s very trusses. At the height of its leap it suddenly disappeared.

Silence fell, but only for a bare few seconds. Gradually the panting of the horses, the rasp of David’s own breath, the creak of leather all adequately filled the absence. And there was still a growling—but that stopped as Raúl turned his horse’s head towards David, and then David realized what the source of that growl had been.

But Raúl gave no acknowledgment of it. He rode up to David and looked at David’s face, then bent down to peer at David’s leg. Reflex made David push his hand over the tears in his hose and Raúl stiffened. He straightened and for a moment it seemed as if he might curse David. But then he merely reached out and took the rein of David’s horse, beginning to lead both horses down the road to the gate.

“It’s not a bad wound, for all that the lady wasn’t so beautiful, after all,” David muttered. “Likely it’ll have stopped bleeding by the time we’ve stopped.”

“I’ll still have a doctor look at it.” Raúl was looking ahead to the watchtowers that rose to either side of the gate. The bridge might have been in disrepair but they still must have kept a guard on this side of the city, for a tiny point of light burned in one window.

David relaxed his grip on his leg, then bit back a hiss as the pain immediately surged in the limb. He felt gingerly at the lacerations to determine their length and width and depth. “You can’t do it yourself?”

The other man looked sharply at him. The torchlight was to Raúl’s back so it was impossible to make out his expression, and no light, eerie or otherwise, came from his eyes. “It’d be better for a doctor to look at that,” he said after a moment. “A doctor, or a priest from the temple. Guardiola can send for someone once we’ve arrived.”

“Guardiola?” David repeated questioningly. “What’s he to do with this? Has he grown a tail, too?”

A soft, dry noise of amusement came from Raúl. He rose in his stirrups again to hail the guard in the tower, then steadied himself with one hand on the saddle as he sat down. From behind the gate, rough clicks and scrapes began to grumble, but still Raúl’s low voice threaded its way through them. “Hardly. But we’ll be staying at his house.”

“Why?” David asked. “What’s wrong with yours?”

For a long time there was no answer. The gate portcullis slowly winched up like the opening of a giant’s maw, and more torches appeared in the hands of guards as they hurried out to greet David and Raúl. Perhaps Raúl didn’t mean to answer, David thought, and at that moment Raúl shifted uneasily in the saddle. The red-yellow light of the torches flared up in his eyes, so that they looked disturbingly like hot coals.

Then Raúl bent his head, and swept back one hand to tuck his cloak more securely around himself. “My house is no—is not open to me tonight,” he said quietly. “Guardiola is closer, and will not turn us away.”

With that he nudged his horse forward, and spoke no more to David but instead addressed the guards. For all his cryptic words, they still recognized him, and treated him no differently to David’s eyes. But Raúl treated them differently—he was graver, more apt to listen and more slow to speak. And when he did speak, he did so as if asking pardon, not as if giving the orders that he was. David watched him and took note.

* * *

Guardiola had gained in favor since David had had to leave the city and it showed in small but concrete ways. The gates of his house only had a token pair of guards watching them, but even at such a late hour, the men were standing alertly outside instead of dozing in their guardhouse. They asked Raúl his name and business before allowing him inside, but once the gates had opened him and David, so did the hospitality of the household. A boy offered David a glass of wine to refresh his mouth, and a heated towel to cleanse his face and hands before David had fully dismounted, and when David refused, the boy made way for Guardiola’s steward, who inquired as to whether David had need of anything.

“His leg is injured,” Raúl interrupted. He shouldered his way through the small cluster of servants that had congregated around them, then directed the steward to the mentioned limb with a nod of the head. Then he grimaced and pulled at his cloak, gathering it up as something threatened to tug it away from him.

He turned to see what that was, but then stopped and looked up at the house’s steps. His shoulders hunched slightly and for a moment Raúl almost looked as if he wished to flee. But instead he ducked his head, breathed quickly, and when he lifted his eyes again, he was smiling in genuine welcome.

Raúl raised his arms and Guardiola walked unhesitatingly between them to fiercely embrace the other man, exclaiming a joyous greeting. He clasped his hands around Raúl’s back, then moved one up to affectionately ruffle Raúl’s hair and Raúl bent his head under the gesture so his chin and part of his nose pressed into Guardiola’s shoulder, and above them his eyes half-shut in pleasure.

It was rather indecent for both of them, David thought, turning away. Then he twisted sharply from a touch on his leg. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” said the young man after a moment. He stepped away from David and put his hands behind his back, and all the time he kept his head bowed so he was addressing David’s knees. “I thought you needed your leg attended to.”

“I think it can wait till we’ve gone inside,” David muttered, glancing back at Raúl and Guardiola. The two men were still standing within each other’s arms, though those had loosened so they could speak. Raúl had recovered some of his reserve and twice tried to withdraw, but his reticence only encouraged Guardiola to keep him closer.

Just as well that Guardiola had regained his fortune when he’d returned from exile, given what he must pay his servants to ignore such goings-on. And that reminded David and he turned back to the youth who’d been attending to him, only to find only an empty space beside himself. David ran his gaze about the courtyard, then brought it sharply back to something standing about ten yards away. Someone standing there, half-hidden by the corner of a building, peering at him. The servant-boy—but David looked closer. Then he took a step forwards, but his leg suddenly pained him.

He looked down, then cursed and threw his head back up. But the youth, with his odd sly smile that was so like the youth on the bridge—he had already disappeared. David cursed again, and irritably shrugged away an inquiry at his elbow. It came again and he bit back a rude reply, for now he recognized the voice of Guardiola’s steward. “All right,” David said.

The other man gestured before him, then fell in behind and slightly to David’s left when David reluctantly started for the door. “Please call for me if you require anything, Lord Villa,” the man told him in a deferential tone. “I am—”

“I remember, Xavi.” David stumbled as a pain lanced up his leg, then clenched his jaw as the stumble doubled the hurt. He held himself upright more by will than by flesh and bone. “Do you—”

A hand pushed up under David’s elbow. It was a firm, quick, covert movement, and over before David had regained his balance yet crucial to that achievement. Before and after it, Xavi’s expression remained placid, his gaze unwavering.

“Perhaps the letters haven’t made it here yet,” David finally said. He paused at the first step, his head pointed forward but his eyes rolling to the side to look at Xavi. “I’ve been stripped of my title and my lands. Due to my conviction.”

“They have, and the city has been informed of your prior status. I have no doubt that by tomorrow, it will also be informed of your current status as one of Lord González’s household,” Xavi replied blandly. Another servant asked him a question and he answered it in such a way as to make it appear as if David had stopped for him to do so. Then he turned back to David, and gave David a slight incline of the head. “But it is the custom of this household to address guests by their highest title, whether or not that be their current one. It is a courtesy of my lord Guardiola, not a mistake.”

David pressed his lips together. He shifted absently onto his injured leg, then winced and stifled some harsh words at his error as he shifted his weight back. Then he looked at Xavi again, at the imperturbable planes of the other man’s face and the perfect order and detail of his dress, and David decided instead to laugh. “Very well, your lord is known to be exceedingly kind. I suppose I can trouble him for a doctor for my leg, and I’ll trouble you to inform me of when Guardiola’s done bestowing his kindness on R—” David stuttered, and not out of uncertainty “—on my lord.”

For the first time Xavi’s eyes flickered. “Wouldn’t your lord inform you of that?”

“Does he usually? I wouldn’t know, as I’ve never been in the position to need to.” David riposted, mounting the first step. He didn’t look for Xavi’s reaction. “I see the worries afield haven’t tested you much. Your men look even more numerous than when I left. Though a bit young, some of them. Aren’t they?”

Two steps and then the careful tread of the other man started after David. Another step passed before Xavi replied, his tone slow and studied. “We’ve suffered losses, but we’ve been able to still provide for some of those who’ve lost their lords, and others who are in need. There’s more than enough work for us to appreciate the extra hands.”

“Extra hands? Could you spare a pair, then?” David asked. “My leg—it’s not bad but I’ll be a little slow for a few days. Someone to run errands would be useful. I saw one youth, about this tall, who looked as if he had quick feet. He was trying to tend my leg, actually, and I spoke roughly to him. I’d like to apologize as well for my bad temper.”

Xavi allowed David to precede him through the door, then came after at a considered pace. His eyes remained on David, observing but giving away nothing. But in the end he nodded. “I think you meant David Silva. He’s quick indeed, but I’d rather lend you another. He’s hurt as well.”

“Hurt? How so?” David surveyed the interior of the house long enough to gain some bearings, then turned to the other man.

“His shoulder, in some sort of fight. It was only tonight, a little before you came, and I haven’t had time to ask about it,” Xavi answered. His tone was straightforward and if he expressed no particular emotion, nor did he seem to be trying not to do so. He was telling the plain truth as he knew it. “He didn’t come from a lord’s house, only knocked at the gate one evening, but he’s fearless. You can send him anywhere, at any hour—unfortunately we’ve had to.”

But he would not again, at least while the youth was hurt, said the set of Xavi’s shoulders. David contemplated arguing, or even revealing what had happened at the bridge. Then something caught David’s eye and he looked to the door: Guardiola with his hand on Raúl’s arm, steering them through the doorway and into another hall. Their faces were less joyful now, but the intimacy was no less apparent as they bent together in conversation. It was as if Raúl had forgotten he had any other matter on his mind.

Of course Raúl had already tried to leave David once. A fine master he was—but David had known that before taking his oath. The irony did make David smile.

“All right, lend me another. But still, send Silva up for the apology,” David finally said. Then he looked at Xavi, and did not look away till the other man bowed his head in assent.

* * *

Once he’d cleaned the cuts on David’s leg, the doctor spread some herbed paste over them that smelled worse than manure but that numbed the flesh for stitches. Then he wrapped up the lot in clean linen. He tried a few times to caution David on not testing the limb unduly, but eventually gave up on that effort once he understood that David didn’t care to even pretend to listen.

“At least change the bandages once a day,” the doctor sighed, straightening up. He let David drop his legs to the floor while he wiped his hands off on a rag. “There, is there anything else you’d like me to look at?”

“No.” David held onto the edge of the bed with both hands and slowly shifted his weight onto his injured leg. The effects of the doctor’s paste had worn off and the effort pained him, but he could stand without any difficulty. “You might as well be off. I hear there’s more hurt than me in this house.”

The doctor sipped up some air, trying to mute his irritation. Then he gave a dismissive hitch of his shoulders and slapped the rag onto a sideboard. He began to gather up his things into his bag. “No, everyone’s quite well. My lord Guardiola’s very careful, and extends his care to those under him. Ever since he proved the charges against him were false, he’s gone from strength to strength.”

Guardiola was indeed a rarity: powerful and honorable. But David felt more than a touch of annoyance at all the praise the man garnered, for though Guardiola had done a great deal to organize the fools and the cowards into an effective defense, he was hardly the only one who’d worked hard. Besides that, David thought he detected something of a submerged reprimand in the doctor’s words. “He’s had the good fortune to have the time to prove himself, I suppose. Not everyone is so lucky.”

“Pardon?” the doctor said, a little fast. He opened his eyes wide as he stepped further back. Then he turned and nearly missed the knob of the door by thrusting his arm out so quickly. He corrected himself and pulled open the door, then smiled. “Silva. How’s your shoulder?”

To do it David had to lock his teeth together, but he rose from the bed and was by the door before this Silva had finished his first word. He put his hand out to rest on the jamb, or at least intended to, but somehow David found himself slumping heavily against it for support. No matter: it crowded the youth in the doorway so he had to look at David.

Then he looked away, dropping his head. He started to excuse himself but David thrust out his arm and got Silva by the collar, and at the same time the doctor squeezed through the door behind Silva so he was forced closer to David. Silva flicked an unkind, ungrateful look over his shoulder at the oblivious departing doctor, then stood stiffly in place. He never turned his head fully back, but instead held it at an angle so David only saw a cheek and an eye, and the slant of the nose.

It was enough. Silva was the youth from the bridge. David grinned, and tightened his hold on Silva’s collar. His fingertips slipped under that and grazed a thick pad of cloth, and David pushed his hand under Silva’s shirt to grasp the bandage on Silva’s shoulder as well. “You’ll claw me again, then? Or maybe stab me with my own dagger?”

Silva looked up then. He wasn’t as young as he seemed, with that hard an anger in his eyes. But then he smiled. It wasn’t the smile from the bridge—it was more amused, more knowing than that one. “It’s not your dagger. It’s your master’s.”

They teetered for a moment, David struggling to keep his hold on the jamb and Silva rocking with the force of David’s pull on him. Then Silva rolled his shoulder back hard, shaking off David’s hand. He didn’t seem to put much effort in it, nor did he show any sign of pain other than a twitch of the lips.

He did pause to brush the hair back from his eyes, and in that moment David swung about the jamb to put himself between Silva and the open door. David watched Silva’s eyes go to the door knob, then put out his hand and took that. He shut the door, carefully pivoting around its edge, and leaned his back against it.

“Does Guardiola know what you are?” David asked.

“Does he know what Raúl is?” Silva replied, brows arched. He seemed only a little discomfited at being trapped in the room, standing as he was with his arms loosely by his sides, his legs slightly bent. He didn’t look as if he was about to run. He tilted his head at David. “Do you know?”

David pressed his lips together. His arm was still behind him, trapped between his body and the door. He eased it out and bent it back and forth a few times to work the blood through it again, then scratched the side of his face. “I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but about a day ago they tried to execute me for witchcraft in La Ciudad de Che.”

Silva showed his small but brilliant white teeth in an easy laugh. “You’re not a witch.”

“No, but I’m not someone to laugh at either,” David said. He smiled as if he was amused, too, and then he lunged for Silva.

His leg didn’t stand for it. He knew it wouldn’t, and didn’t try to make it do so, or to guess when it would buckle.

It proved to be the right risk to take, for Silva dodged as if he thought David still had two healthy legs, and so misjudged where David’s hands would be. David closed his eyes and let his weight carry them down. In his hands the cloth of Silva’s shirt pulled taut over swelling flesh, then began to rip. Then they were on the floor and David’s palms had slapped flat on a body that was twisting, _changing_ and he heard fur rustling under the shirt, claws clicking against the tile.

He pulled his head in and down, pressing his face into the flexing muscles that was tearing apart the clothes in his hands. Something gnashed over his head and David opened his eyes, then hurriedly threw himself down the thrashing body, between the hind legs. One lashed out at him and the claws on its foot ripped his shirt-sleeve, but he ducked it and then saw the long, bushy tail. Near its base was a spot that glowed soft white: David seized the tail there and his hand closed on something small and round and hard.

Then the demon heaved him off. David skidded across the floor into a piece of furniture that bruised his shoulders and back, but he held onto the thing he’d found in the demon’s tail. He fell back against the tile, then breathed raggedly as pain crested and slowly faded in his body.

Nothing happened to him. He could still hear the demon’s breathing on the far side of the room, but it didn’t approach him and he was able to recover his composure in peace. He worked himself up by stages with the help of the table at his back, then leaned against one of its legs and looked into his hand. It held a perfectly round stone about the size of a pigeon’s egg, which glowed from its center, as a flame within a lantern would.

David looked up. Silva had returned to his human form and was just pulling himself onto his knees. His clothes were badly shredded and here a shoulder bared itself, there peeked a strip of belly, but he didn’t try to tend to himself. His eyes were fixed on the stone David had. He looked frightened and worried, and suddenly as young as his face.

“Give that back,” he said.

“No.” The stone felt strangely cool against David’s palm, taking no warmth from him. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “What do you know about Raúl?”

“It’s mine,” Silva said, as if David hadn’t spoken. A wavering note entered his voice. He wrapped one arm around himself, then shivered and dropped his eyes to the floor. “You can’t just take it.”

Then he darted a glance up at David. He should have waited, and let himself crumple a little more. The sharpness of his glance gave away his expectations for David, and blunted any effect his sudden frailty might have had on David.

“What arrangement do you have with Guardiola?” David asked. He snapped the stone into the hollow of his hand, then closed his fingers tightly around it. Then he pulled up his knees to shield his hand. “Are you planning on telling him—what are you going to say to him? He and Raúl are old friends, you know. He’s not going to believe you over Raúl, especially when Raúl mentions what happened at the bridge.”

Silva frowned, but he was looking at the middle of David’s shins. Then he dropped forward with the quicksilver grace of a raindrop. He caught himself on his hands and crouched on bent elbows in the same movement. “Raúl’s not going to say a thing about me. You shouldn’t talk about what you don’t know, and you don’t know everything, or else you’d—”

His mouth shut up tightly. He kept his eyes lowered, his head slightly craned as if he’d been trying to crook his gaze about David’s legs. It was a ploy, a transparent one, but David still leaned forward to hear better.

Then he swore and twisted sharply away as Silva leaped on him. He threw his shoulder into Silva’s face; it missed but it at least diverted one clawing hand down David’s arm. Silva kneed David in the back, nearly at the kidney, and David jerked his head towards the floor, pushing it between his knees. He squeezed the stone so hard it nearly slipped from his fingers, then brought it up to his mouth as Silva shook his elbow. The stone almost slid between David’s lips as he gasped for air. He spit it out barely in time, then put it back against his mouth as Silva battered his shoulders.

The battering abruptly ceased, though Silva’s hands remained on David’s back. They flexed till their nails were driving into David’s flesh, and for a moment he could feel the tips of the nails lengthening. Then the pressure lifted. Silva moved back, then crawled around David. He put down his head, laying his cheek against the floor, and looked at David. His eyes were rimmed with red, and he kept catching his lip between his teeth. “Please don’t eat it,” he said sadly.

David grunted and slowly eased his weight over so he could straighten his injured leg. He stared at Silva through the haphazard interlacing of his arms and hair. “You’re very good at that. Looking like I should feel sorry for you.”

“I’ll help you if you give it back. I promise.” Silva sank lower against the floor, though he already was eye-to-eye with David. The slump of his shoulders echoed the dullness in his eyes. “You win.”

A bit of moisture welled up at the corner of Silva’s left eye. He let it go till it’d almost beaded a drop, then pushed up a hand and roughly wiped it away, pulling his chin down. He seemed angry and embarrassed about it, but David still kept his fingers tightly around the stone. “Does Guardiola know—”

“No. No, he doesn’t. But he’s safe anyway. He let me in when they were hunting me, and I won’t hurt him,” Silva said. At the end his voice sharpened a little. He lifted his chin so David could see the firmness in the line of it.

“Even if I tell you to?” David asked.

Something dark went through Silva’s eyes, like the change of a shadow that shouldn’t have changed. David heard a slight scratch and looked at Silva’s hands, but the nails were almost human-like again. Then he looked up at Silva, who was sighing.

“No.” Silva put his cheek against the floor again. His eyes nearly closed, as if he was very tired. “But I’ll help you. And I _can_ help you. It’d be better for Raúl than hurting Guardiola.”

“I don’t know about—wait a moment. You said Raúl. What do you know about him?” David snapped.

“Give me my stone back.” Then Silva sighed. He pulled his arms into his sides and rocked his head slowly against the floor. The flesh around his mouth and eyes was turning dark and bruised. “I promise I will help you. But I need my stone back to do that. _Please_ give it back.”

He looked at David for a few moments longer, then closed his eyes. His shoulders flexed, one higher than the other, and then he was still. It was hard for David to even see if Silva was breathing.

For some reason that thought twisted painfully inside David. He doubted it had much to do with pitying the fox-demon, especially since Silva had just teased David again with what he knew that David didn’t. And if he’d then simply put down his head and—the sudden flush of anger raised David on his arms. He didn’t think as he reached out with his hand, meaning to give Silva a shake.

Silva’s eyes snapped open. David stilled. Then he swore at Silva, at Silva’s irritating cleverness, and tried to snatch at Silva’s sleeve. But he had something in his hand—the stone slipped from him and before he even saw it, Silva had darted forward like a fish at a hook. His hands went around David’s wrist, holding it up and away while he swallowed the stone. Then he straightened up and a healthy flush had returned to his face.

David swore again and attempted to pull away his hand, but Silva kept hold of it. His fingers were small and thin, but they locked around David’s arm as tightly as iron chains. “Come,” he said. He pulled at David’s arm. “If you want to know about Raúl, you’ll have to come.”

He might still be tricking David, but his demeanor was different. When David hesitated, Silva simply sat there and watched him. No hint of amusement passed over Silva’s face, nor did Silva try to goad David into acting.

“All right,” David finally said, levering himself up. Then he frowned and pushed Silva away.

Silva held his hand in the air with the fingers still cupped as if to take David’s elbow. He looked at it, then at David with that odd keenness of an animal taking note. Then he put his arm down and gave David his space. His injured shoulder didn’t seem to trouble him unduly, but he didn’t seem to be any less watchful for David’s injury.

“All right,” David muttered again. “What about Raúl? Where are we going?”

“Come.” Then Silva led David up to the wall. He put his hand out and looked over his shoulder, watching David while David watched part of the wall pivot like a door. Silva put his hand down and stepped into the passage he’d revealed. He looked at David again, but this time he didn’t speak.

After a moment he turned, and began to walk down the passage. David opened his mouth to call Silva back and Silva abruptly disappeared. But David could still hear soft footsteps, so Silva must have gone around a corner…David glanced over his shoulder, at the room behind him. Then he hurried into the passage after Silva, before even the footfalls died away.

* * *

As was common with nobles’ houses, Guardiola’s had been passed down through many generations, each of which had left their mark on the building. The passage cut its way through the newer additions and led into the very heart of the house, the oldest part, where the massive stones were covered in a slimy reddish scum and dirt of the same corner had gradually silted up on the bottom of the passage. It was as if they were trying to return to the earth from which they had been hewed so many years before.

For all its dank heaviness, the narrow corridor was very quiet. It was not hard for David to trace Silva’s footsteps back to their maker, and once he’d found Silva, David took care to clamp his hand to Silva’s shoulder. The fox-demon flicked a look at him, the slant of the shoulder hiding Silva’s mouth, and then silently bore up under David’s grip. At least, he made no complaint that David could hear; after that point the light diminished to the point that David could no longer see.

He led David up a steep, treacherous staircase whose steps more than once crumbled under David’s boots and threatened to pitch David back down them. At the top was another passage with no openings in sight. The lack of an exit made David tighten his hold on Silva.

“Here,” Silva said suddenly, as David was about to question him again. His voice was low and thin and yet in the stifling silence, it seemed as loud as a thunderclap by David’s ear.

Silva put out his hands with the palms turned outwards, and pressed them into the wall. It was so dark that David shouldn’t have been able to see the movement, but he could. Then David realized that a soft glow had emerged, and leaned over Silva’s shoulder to find that its source was Silva’s eyes. They were green and eerie as the strange lights that marked out every swamp and bog.

David would have expected a harsh grating sound, something befitting the apparent disuse of the hall in which they stood, but instead all he heard was a slight sucking of air. It pulled at his clothes the way a mischievous child would and David glanced down, then looked up when he sensed movement before him.

A whole section of the wall pivoted away, revealing a small room. Light came into it—a lurid dim yellow that still seemed a veritable flood compared to the blackness of the passage. It stung David’s eyes, and he had to open and close them rapidly to force them to adjust. Then he could see that the light was being admitted through a pattern of slits in the far wall of the room. A rosette of stone and glass, and the glass was thick but clear enough for David to make out the trappings of a room beyond it.

His hand grazed something, then wrapped around a thin piece of stonework for support as David pressed his face against one pane. Curiosity had drawn him up to the rosette before he knew it, and drove him to make out the twisted posters of a grand bed just below before he finally turned around. He was alone.

David looked sharply about, then swore under his breath when his eyes only confirmed that Silva had disappeared. This time, he already knew, he’d not catch up. He had hardly been paying attention to how they had made their way through the passage, fixed as he was on simply not stumbling in the dark—

—he heard voices in the room below. They came as clearly as if their owners had been standing next to him, and they belonged to Guardiola and Raúl. Guardiola came into view a moment after David had turned back to the window.

“I think that can wait. You’ve only just arrived, and when we all thought you were—” Guardiola’s brisk tone abruptly slowed. He stopped by the side of the bed and looked down at it, then ran one hand over the covers as he turned back. His hand left the bed and rose to pluck at his chest, and the white of his shirt slowly spilled out from the dark of his doublet. When he spoke again, his voice had a touch of strain to it. It wanted to hesitate and to push forward far more forcefully than before. It was personal. “How is that, that you’ve come back? How have you done it?”

Raúl gradually came into sight. He’d not even taken off his traveling cloak and he kept his distance from Guardiola with a care so transparent that it made David’s lips curl sourly. “Never mind how I’ve done it. I know I’m later than was expected, and we should lose no time now that I’ve returned.”

“We’ll not. There have been a few—but as I said, it can wait,” Guardiola said. His voice rose a little, anticipating the way Raúl shook his head. He left off his doublet with it nearly undone, the folds of his shirt hanging out of it, and crossed over to put out his hand towards Raúl. When Raúl withdrew, Guardiola’s hand flexed sharply and dropped, then rose again; Guardiola’s voice suffered no such moment of doubt. “I’ve already sent for the others to gather in the morning. We can move no earlier than that—Thuram is still a day’s journey away, Inzaghi even farther. Morientes is nearer…I’m sorry, I forgot.”

A sharp pain suddenly shot up David’s leg. He clenched his teeth and his knee buckled without warning. His teeth snapped open in a silent gasp as he seized the stonework, trying desperately to hold himself up. His fingers slipped on the stone, then caught and he just kept his chin above the edge of it, his eyes on the scene below.

“It’s all right. I’d like to see him. We need to speak,” Raúl said after a moment. Enthusiasm was notably lacking in his voice. He turned his head away, twisting on one foot as if he wanted to leave. “When will that be?”

“Tomorrow morning, likely.” Guardiola moved a little more cautiously on his second attempt, but with no less purpose. He came up to Raúl, his hands relaxed at his sides but his head craning so he could look into Raúl’s averted face. Then he put out a hand, and took Raúl’s arm when the other man turned further away. “What’s wrong? Why the hurry? I told you, we’re hardly winning but we’re not losing ground either. And now that we’ve found out the way to throw them back, it’s only a matter of time.”

At that David stilled. His eyes went from Raúl to Guardiola, but the distortions of the glass panes couldn’t disguise the naked sincerity of the man. Of course Guardiola could be sincere and still not tell the truth—but that was too unfair, David acknowledged. If Guardiola thought he’d discovered the secret for ridding their land of its foul invaders, then he’d discovered it.

“I know. I know you’ve found it out,” Raúl said. His voice was strangely heavy, unhappy. He flinched again as Guardiola moved his hand from Raúl’s arm to his shoulder, then turned his face from the other man.

David didn’t hear anything else, but Raúl must have spoken again because Guardiola took him by both shoulders. Guardiola’s hands flexed as if he meant to shake Raúl, and indeed that simple flexing was hard enough to bring Raúl’s head up. And Raúl’s hand as well, rising to about the level of Guardiola’s ribcage. Guardiola didn’t see it but David did, and David saw the way the fingers changed. They grew shorter but more thickly muscled. The nails lengthened and curved into claws whose tips pointed in towards Guardiola, and black fur spread back over the hand.

“It was purely by accident. Only about a week ago—some old texts we found hidden in a wall. We were tearing down the house for stone to reinforce the walls—I had no idea beforehand. If I’d known, I’d not have let you go,” Guardiola said. He stepped nearer to Raúl. His hands slid up to frame the sides of Raúl’s jaw, and his head bent so that their brows nearly touched. David had to strain to hear his next words. “If I’d even—even known you were still _alive_, I would have sent—but when you left, we were depending on you. We didn’t know that there was another—”

“Pep.” Perhaps there was a hint of a smile to the edge of Raúl’s lip, what part of it that wasn’t obscured by Guardiola’s hands. But in Raúl’s voice, David heard the fraying start of a tear, a raw sadness that made David start, hidden away in the dark as he was. “No, I don’t blame you for my leaving. I volunteered to go, and I would go again. Even if you’d found the books earlier, we’d still need that. The books didn’t tell you all that you need to know—but I’ve already given you the rest.”

“But still, perhaps we could have found another way. One that wouldn’t have burdened you so,” Guardiola said firmly, earnestly. Soothingly. For all his brilliance, he still mistook Raúl for nothing more than a frightened man.

Raúl leaned back so David too could see the brightness of his smile. He looked at Guardiola, smiling, and David saw the way Guardiola relaxed. He watched Guardiola’s fingers skim up over Raúl’s cheek, familiar and affectionate. They rested a moment there, then dropped again, and twisted more roughly in Raúl’s collar. Guardiola bent his head.

A breath that was surprisingly painful eked itself out between David’s teeth. He dropped his gaze to the stone bar between his hands, wondering about that pain, and then he looked up again. He didn’t wish to look at Guardiola and perhaps that was why his gaze started too low, at the arm Raúl was just now wrapping over Guardiola’s back. The furred one with the claws, and under the claws David could see white furrows opening up.

First he cried out. Then he realized the white lines were made of Guardiola’s shirt showing through rips in the man’s doublet. He swore and pounded his palm against the glass; Guardiola threw up his head and his wide eyes stared straight into David’s.

Then he spun around, looking wildly to and fro, and he should have for Raúl had vanished. David breathed in sharply, dragging himself up to the pane to search the room. His nails scraped on the stone, then nearly tore off as something pulled him off the window.

He fell on his hip, then caught himself on his hands as his weight began to roll his body onto his injured leg. The twisting motion of the fall itself already had made that hurt again, and for several moments he could only look at the ground and rasp air through his mouth.

Gradually David made out a pair of shoes standing in front of him. He inhaled deeply, then rocked onto one arm and slowly raised his head.

Raúl was there. He looked down at David, but the light from the window only allowed David to see up to his waist. His hands were hanging by his hips and they were knotted into fists, but as David watched they uncurled almost viciously quickly. Then they kept bending, pulling back till the tendons stood out in the backs of the hands, and the nails gleamed in the low light like knives. They held the position for the space of a breath before slowly relaxing. The fingers flattened, then went limp. The hands dangled from the wrists like cold dead things.

Then Raúl came down to David. First he bent, and then he crouched. The light touched briefly on his face, showing the relief in it. He reached out for David and David was still so preoccupied with that relief that David didn’t resist. He let Raúl put hands under his arms, and pull him to his feet.

“Come,” Raúl said lowly, and David went with him.

* * *

The spell, if it was that, lasted only as long as it took for them to return to their room. Then David shook off the other man. He needed support, for the damp cold of the hidden passage had not been kind to his leg, but he preferred to seek it from a nearby chair. Once fallen into it, he pulled himself up and looked at Raúl, then at his leg. The bandages were smeared with that red scum, so it looked as if he’d bled through and then let the blood dry.

He looked up and a heavy fall of dark cloth took his eye. It drew his gaze to the floor, where the just-landed folds made strange, twisted patterns. Then he raised his eyes and found Raúl disburdening himself of his doublet as well. The other man had hold of his sleeve in one hand, and the other hand was straight out to allow the cloth to pass over it. Both hands were smooth-skinned with polished round nails.

“Calmed down a little, have you?” David asked acerbically. He passed his hand over his leg, then grimaced at the slimy feel of it. Then he looked around for a change of bandages while wiping his fingers off on the ones on him. Part of the bandage came away in his hand and David pressed it back into place, then thought better of it and began to unwind it from his leg. “It’d a terrible thing if we were thrown out at this hour. Even worse if it was for eating our host.”

“I wasn’t going to—” Then Raúl twisted away. He exhaled roughly and faced the far wall with his shoulders pulled tightly back. 

After several moments, he slowly lifted his hand and pushed it against the side of his head. His fingers slipped on his hair and he moved his hand to better secure it, till he was cupping the back of his head. It seemed less for support and more out of a need to force himself forward.

David’s fancies were running away with him, David thought, and at that moment Raúl turned around and looked at him. The shadows under Raúl’s eyes were as dark as they had been by the hidden window, and the flesh about Raúl’s mouth was grey. He looked as if he was dying.

Raúl exhaled again. He straightened up and the light fell fully on him, over healthy skin, smooth-looking as silk and tanned from the sun. His eyes were keeping their secrets folded close again, even as they dropped to David’s leg. “How is it?”

“Don’t change the subject. Why do you want Guardiola dead?” David snapped.

The other man’s brows lifted high, but it was no flinch. Then he turned on his heel and crossed the room. He began to busy himself at a sideboard. “I don’t want him dead. That was…you saw a mistake on my part.”

“If it was a mistake, I think it would have gone a little far if I hadn’t been there to shout at you.” His leg forgotten, David put his hands down on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet.

He only managed two steps before the limb reminded him. It was not a serious injury but it was threatening to malinger, should he not rest. He looked at it a moment, then snorted to himself as he threw back his shoulders, lifted his head.

Raúl had finished at the sideboard and had come almost back to David. His closeness made David start, then sway and Raúl put out his hand and took David by the elbow. It was an instinctive, quick gesture, and neither of them seemed to think on it till after it had happened. Then David looked at Raúl, and Raúl looked at his hand on David’s arm. He breathed in slowly, then strangely, went down on his knees before David. His fingers slid off David’s arm and their ghosts seemed to graze David’s hip before they made their presence solidly known on David’s knee.

“Thank you for that,” Raúl said quietly. The bandages swiftly fell away from David’s leg into his hands, and then fresh ones began to wind up in their place. “It was going too—I didn’t know myself then. I needed someone to shout at me.”

David sucked his lower lip between his teeth and chewed on it, then allowed the savaged flesh to go free and sting at him. He rubbed at the side of his face, the side of his neck, but the gesture did little to quell the restlessness in him. “What happened? Why are you like this? The last I knew, you’d—you told me there was no point in seeking it out. You said the oracle was mythical, that it didn’t exist and I was grasping at straws. You drove me out as a laughingstock.”

For the first part, Raúl kept his head bent and his hands slowly but constantly moving over David’s leg, but for the last part his eyes flashed up to David. His hands stilled where they were, one on David’s thigh just above the knee and the other with its knuckles pressed into the back of the joint. If he wished to, he could have easily put David down on the floor. His eyes said he did wish it.

But he didn’t carry out that wish. Instead the anger in his eyes faded, and was cooling to mere resignation by the time he finished tucking in the end of the bandage. Then he got up, brushing his hands against his hips, as calmly and briskly as any…as any servant tending to a master. Except he was no servant—he didn’t carry his head like one, with the chin proudly raised and the head erect even now.

“I didn’t drive you out. I doubted you, and you couldn’t find anyone else to believe in you. That they took so badly against you was less my doing than your own.” Raúl walked away. He retrieved his cloak from the floor and folded it up, then set it aside. Then he stripped off his doublet and set that on top. A brushy black thing briefly waved from his hip, but he smoothed that back from David’s sight with one hand. “But I will take the blame for the rest. It is real. How did you find that passage?”

“Then…what are you saying? That you saw—” David stopped, distracted by the question, and saw the way Raúl was looking at him. His hackles rose. He realized the distraction was deliberate and his irritation grew even more, but that only fed the distraction. In the end he had to answer the accusations implied in the question; otherwise he would never be able to clear his head to consider the first part of Raúl’s reply. “I was taken to it. By our friend from the bridge. He’s gotten himself a place in Guardiola’s household.”

The other man half-turned. “He’s here?”

“He tried to bite me, but I took his—they really do have those little jewels. I always thought…” Then David stepped to the side, towards the bed. He leaned against the post. “Do you have one?”

Raúl was still looking at him, steady and unwavering. Perhaps the brows lifted a little, but that was all. “Have…?”

“You know what I mean. You and I know the same legends,” David said irritably. He tugged at his shirt, then exhaled loudly and reached behind himself to the bed. The covers sank immediately, swallowing his hand. He pulled up his arm, moved his hand further back, and then seated himself on the edge of the bed. “Do you have one?”

“No,” Raúl said. He met David’s stare without a flinch or a care, yet he was hardly nonchalant about it. On the contrary, he was simply stating a fact, but it was a fact he didn’t take lightly. “Why? What does that matter?”

“Well, it’s how I kept Silva—that’s his name—from biting out my throat.” David tipped his head, and gazed at Raúl through half-lidded eyes. “That one’s true, too. It’s a useful trick. I’ll be remembering it.”

After a moment, Raúl nodded but merely in acknowledgement. Then he backed away from his clothes, and moved to a pitcher that was sitting near them. He picked it up and poured a little water into his cupped hand, then held it up to his mouth. The pink of his tongue occasionally flickered between the olive of his fingers. Beside the pitcher were several goblets, David noted.

“I won’t be biting you,” Raúl said dryly, lifting his head from his hand. He watched David, pitcher in hand. Then he put the pitcher down, and crossed the room again, passing the bed on his way to the windows. He opened one and leaned out, then pulled himself inside and closed the shutters. The action twisted him away from David, so that when he spoke, his voice was muffled. “Did you keep it?”

David opened his mouth a little late. His irritation at himself colored his tone. “The stone? No, I gave it back once he promised to help me. And then he led me up there to see you and Guardiola, and you haven’t told me what happened to you.”

“I asked you if you’d serve me, and you agreed,” Raúl said after a moment. He walked back across the room. He didn’t seem to have any purpose to it, with the way he looked here and there but never settled on anything. Once his tail flicked around his hip, and when he put his hand down to brush it back, the light glinted off claws. But then he raised his hand and pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, and on his fingers were blunt nails. “You didn’t say anything about asking questions.”

“You didn’t say you’d turned into a demon,” David snapped.

Raúl abruptly turned. His eyes were hard and angry. His lips pulled back from his teeth as he flung cold, crisp words across the room. “And if I had, would you have chosen differently?”

“I don’t—you can’t ask me that. I don’t _know_. It didn’t happen and you can’t have me question myself now. I had the choice I had, and I made my decision about that.” It shouldn’t be about David’s choices anyway. It was not his choice they were discussing; he knew what he’d done and he was asking about what he didn’t know—what Raúl had done. “What’d you promise for it? That you’d kill Guardiola?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Now the coldness in Raúl’s voice was purely contemptuous. He glanced at David, then turned away. He didn’t even care to know why David would have such an outrageous thought; he only knew it was David and that was sufficient for him. “I’m not a demon.”

At first David didn’t hear him. Then David didn’t want to hear him. It would have been easier, and simpler, to listen only to the furious roaring in David’s ears, to the voice in David that knew Raúl was the ridiculous one. But still David leaned forward, one hand on a bedpost for support. “You’re not a demon? Then why the tail and the claws, and the teeth?”

Raúl looked up again. He stopped where he was, closer to the far wall than to David. He was slightly stooped forward, readying himself for another step, but since he hadn’t taken it, he looked as if someone was drawing his body backwards by way of a string attached to his back, at the midpoint between the shoulders. The anger was gone and for a moment regret took its place.

Then Raúl turned from David, and went at a steady pace towards the washroom. “They’re a reminder,” he said as he stepped over the threshold. “I’m not here to kill anyone. I only need to settle some unfinished matters here, and I need you to see that I do settle them. That’s all.”

He disappeared into the other room. For a moment David swung his heels against the side of the bed, trying to understand what the other man had said. Then he gave up on that. He could simply ask, he thought, and he slid off the bed and limped across the room to do so.

But when he came to the bathroom doorway, he saw that that room was empty. David stood there and breathed in, then out. Then he swore and spun to strike his hand against the jamb. It was made of the finest marble and of course it was cold and hard, and of course it hurt him but wasn’t hurt itself. But at least someone cared about what had just happened.

For a little longer David stood there. He looked this way and that, and then he swore again and made his way back to the bed. If Raúl had wanted him to follow, the other man would have asked. And David had followed once already this night without Raúl asking, and taken on the cost for it. He would serve the man but he wouldn’t pay for it when there was no need for it.

* * *

David opened his eyes. It was still night, and someone had snuffed all the candles so he could see little more than layers of shadows. He made out his hand as a dark shape against the almost luminous grey of the sheets beneath it—in light they had been pure white linen. Then beyond that was a black curve that rose gradually, dropped in a sharp incline and then climbed again into a rounded mound.

It moved and the black of it was uneven, but only in one direction. After a moment David understood that he was looking at the wavy lines of someone’s hair, smoothing down from the top of the head to the base of the neck. He flattened his hand to see better, and his fingertip bumped the neck just below the hairline. The darkness made it hard to judge distances; he’d thought he was much farther away.

He went still. His breath paused in his throat. But nothing happened. The other person failed to even shift. So David breathed again, and studied his companion more closely. They were still dressed in a shirt, but it hung quite loosely from their shoulder, draping a large fold over their back. Then they hitched forward and pulled the cloth tight against them. It outlined what looked like an old injury. A thickly scarred spot covering the whole shoulderblade, and shaped like the print of a hand.

“Tomorrow Fernando Morientes should be staying in an inn about an hour’s ride from here,” Raúl said. His voice abruptly broke the silence but it had no intrinsic sharpness. It was calm and seamless and low. “I think you know the inn.”

David stiffened. Then he rubbed his head against the bed and told himself not to feel any guilt. “Oh. I wondered if you’d ever bothered to find out about that, or if you just assumed he wouldn’t dare admit to it—”

“I’m not going to discuss that with you, Villa. It’s not my business.” A slight strain touched Raúl’s voice. He moved his shoulder, then turned over so he was facing David. For a moment his eyes were greenish, and then they were black again. They shone more against the dark room that way than when they’d had the demon glow. “I’ll give you a message to take to him.”

It was on the tip of David’s tongue to give Raúl a message or two, to tell him about what they’d meant to do by meeting each other. To let him know what it had been like, without the elaboration of gossip, when Fernando had been that angry and bitter and vengeful, and David had simply wanted to—but David swallowed it. He pulled his hands in towards his chest, and rolled onto them to stare more closely at the other man. “Why don’t you give it to him yourself? He’ll want to see you, at least as much as Guardiola did. I don’t think you’ve let him know you’d come back. Did you?”

No crack appeared in Raúl’s composure this time. “I’ll be seeing Fernando Hierro,” was all he said.

Then he turned onto his other side again. His shoulder rolled forward and he moved his head a little, and then he was still. Perhaps he was sleeping. It would be impossible to tell unless David got up and crawled over and looked down at him.

David didn’t crawl. He stayed where he was. His eyes closed even as he told them to stay on the other man.

* * *

In the morning Raúl was gone, but his cloak was still there so David presumed the man hadn’t completely absented himself from the house. At any rate, David had slept badly, once he had fallen asleep: his dreams had been full of unseen but horrible things chasing him, and an urgent sense of something wrongly forgotten. His body had contorted itself into some position that had left him sore. He had woken earlier than the sun had, and was in no hurry to seek out company.

He’d only dressed himself when a knock came at the door. David looked up and the door was already opening, someone’s boot-tip edging inside. Then Silva came into the room. He had a basin of steaming water and a bundle of towels in his arms, but he used his hip to push the door and then spun himself cleverly about the door to avoid its backswing. “Good morning,” he said, smiling at David. The smile reached his eyes but that was less than reassuring. “I’m to get you ready.”

“Ready for what?” David asked. He stood away from the sideboard, where he’d been about to pour himself some water. Then he snorted, and nodded at the basin in Silva’s arms. “There’s one of those in the washroom.”

“But that won’t get you hot water. That pipe was turned off this morning.” Silva crossed the room and set down the basin on a table near David. Then he juggled the towels in his arms till he could lay them down one by one, in some premeditated order. From their folds he began to produce other things as well: little jars, brushes with ivory handles, a razor. He kept hold of the last item, twisting it between his fingers so its blade caught the light. His eyes rose to David’s face. “There’s a charcoal quota in place. Every other day, everyone goes without heat.”

After a moment, David grinned himself. He came over and took the razor from Silva without pausing to ask permission—Silva had no time to even flinch from it, though he looked sharply at David’s hand afterward. “Except me this morning. Did you do that specially for me?”

“I promised I’d help,” Silva said. He spoke pleasantly, with the corners of his mouth curled upwards. His eyes returned to David’s, but sometimes they almost rolled downwards to check on the razor. “You’re due downstairs in a few minutes. You should try to look proper for it. Guardiola would think better of you.”

Then he presented David with a ball of soap. It was round and faintly green, and when David looked more closely at it, he could pick out flecks of herbs rolled into it. It smelled pungently of mint and cloves, so that David’s nostrils flared hard as he plucked it from Silva’s hand.

Silva turned over his hand so its fingers were pointing downwards, and somehow they now dangled a small towel. He quirked a brow; David raised his own, then waved away the towel before dipping the soap into the basin. The merest touch of water brought up a thick white foam from it.

After shaking off the excess water, David began to run the soap over his cheeks and jaw. “Why do I need to care about Guardiola? For that matter, why would I listen to you about anything? The last time you helped me, you left me there while your precious Guardiola nearly got his throat torn out.”

“Raúl wasn’t going to hurt him,” Silva said, faintly scornful. Now he’d dropped the pretense of service, and was slouching insolently against the table. His eyes weren’t even in David, but instead were taking in the windows on the other side of the room.

“What? Because you wouldn’t have let that happen? Was that where you went?” David dropped the soap onto the table. He wiped the foam off his fingers onto the edge of the basin, then lifted the razor. A glance down to see where the sharp edge was, and then he’d swiped off a strip of foam along the left side of his face. He washed off the razor in the basin before putting it to his face again. “You’re so fond of Guardiola—is that how you know about the tunnel? Do you use it often?”

Silva glanced at David, then frowned at his feet. He wrapped one arm around himself, signaling discomfort, but the set of his shoulders remained easy. Then he put out his hand, and picked up the soap. He turned the ball in his fingers so the curve of one scraped off the foam, and then he turned it once more, and it vanished. His eyes rose to David’s, casually curious. “You’d be a very handsome man if your temper was sweeter.” He smiled like a boy who’d just seen a strolling magician do a particularly clever trick. “Guardiola doesn’t know where Raúl went, you know. That’s why he’ll be a little upset when he comes down, and why he’ll want to see you. And handsome or not, you should have a care when he’s upset.”

“He’ll—_when_ he comes down? Are you saying he doesn’t know yet? Wait—stop being so sly and _tell_ me what you mean,” David said. He lowered the razor and took a hard step forward.

The fox-demon took a corresponding step back, but made it look almost like part of a dance as he twisted about the table. His hands swept along the table’s edge and opened jars, unfolded towels, fanned out brushes. “He doesn’t know where Raúl’s gone. Raúl’s _left_ and he hasn’t told Guardiola where he was going.” Then Silva looked up, suddenly solemn. “Did he tell you?”

David opened his mouth. He stared hard at Silva. His eyes searched the same places in Silva’s face, and always found the same things.

Eventually Silva bent forward. He placed his hand under David’s elbow and gently pushed it up, so gently that the corner of the razor’s blade nearly nicked into the underside of David’s chin. Then Silva flicked away his hand, neatly avoiding David’s push at him. “You should finish shaving,” Silva said very seriously. “You can’t talk to Guardiola with all that on your face.”

“You contrary little shit. I shouldn’t have given back your stone,” David said.

Silva grinned at him, as if David had just performed the clever trick. “But you did, and so I’m going to help you. Hurry up. Guardiola’s awake now, and it won’t be long till he comes here. If he sees you still half-shaved, he’ll wonder what kind of servant you are, fussing about while your master’s gone missing.”

For another moment David stared at Silva. Then he dropped his eyes to the basin. He watched one dirty clump of foam float towards the side, pushed at it with the razor and grimaced when that only made the foam wrap around the blade. Then David snorted and shook his head. He glanced at Silva, flicking the foam off the razor, before raising his hand and taking more foam off his face to put into the water to dirty it further. “That’s good. That’s very good.”

“Don’t laugh at yourself,” Silva remarked a little more quietly. He was looking at the windows again, and the planes of his face were strangely calm. “You still have a little time.”

David pursed his lips, then laughed instead of speaking. It was a hard, rough noise, and it echoed in his ears as he rasped the razor more swiftly over his jaw.

* * *

Guardiola pushed through the doors and looked round once. It was not a full look, for his eyes stopped as soon as they fell on David. Silva, who was standing farther down the arc of the glance, was missed entirely and stepped silently around Guardiola. He attracted David’s attention so that David failed to listen to Guardiola, and so only had the impression of a demand given in a low, hard voice.

David looked back at Guardiola and saw too late the knowing, infuriated nod of the other man. “I’ve only just woken,” David said.

“You’ve been sleeping all this time? You’ve had a hard journey but I thought you had some sense of duty,” Guardiola replied sharply. “Where’s Raúl gone?”

“Don’t speak to me about duty. You don’t know anything about what my duties are.” Then David looked past Guardiola, at the door that had just shut behind Silva. He glanced at the table and found it empty, with not even a drop of water left on it. “I’d think you’d know more about Raúl than I would in any case.”

Something seized David by the shoulder. It pushed him back onto his injured leg and he slapped at it, then twisted away. But he put himself into another grip. This one clamped mercilessly about his left wrist, then dragged him forward so that he nearly fell onto somebody’s body. At the last moment his hand found a hold on a shoulder. He barely steadied himself.

David glanced up, glimpsed the anger glittering in Guardiola’s eyes, and then had his gaze wrenched back to the floor as Guardiola dragged him towards the door. The heel of his injured leg caught against the floor and caused his leg to twist painfully, and the heave he made to free it hurt even more. He cursed and pulled at Guardiola’s shoulder, at his own hand, but the other man failed to give. Guardiola was like some iron statue brought to sufficient life to permit movement, but not weakness.

They went into the hall and then down it till they reached a staircase. Servants and others scattered in their wake, then nervously edged around the empty path they left. One or two called after them, but their voices faltered quickly, unlike Guardiola’s pace. He kept David stumbling swiftly along until they’d reached another door. A bedroom that was strangely familiar lay behind it.

It was the room David had seen from the rosette, Guardiola’s own chambers. Then Guardiola spun David towards a table, violently disrupting David’s thoughts. The motion was so rough that David put out his hand and it slammed into the table’s top without any further effort upon his part.

“He left this behind. I haven’t read it save for the end but—he left it,” Guardiola said roughly, and at first all David could think was that Silva had lied to him. Then Guardiola shook David so that David had to put his other hand down onto the table to stand it.

David looked up at the other man and Guardiola released him, but hardly because calm had prevailed. Guardiola pushed his hands out sharply, then jerked them out to either side of him as he looked away from David. He exhaled and pressed one hand to the side of his face, then over his eyes. Then he took it down and looked back at David; even if he had kept his hand up, it would not have blocked the burning in his eyes.

“And you say you don’t know what happened to him.” Guardiola’s lips writhed into a smile. “With this. Now tell me you don’t know.”

“I _don’t_,” David protested. He glanced at the table. There was a sheet of paper on it and he picked it up, but even as he did, his eyes returned to Guardiola’s ferocious stare. “I only met him two days ago, and he—last night he told me he was going to see Hierro. That’s all I know.”

“Hierro?” The other man’s brows rose precipitously. “Hierro’s been dead for two weeks. And you only arrived a few hours ago.”

For a moment David couldn’t speak. He didn’t even open his mouth.

Guardiola continued to watch him while he was silent. Impatiently, and then with something else in the other man’s eyes. A few times Guardiola’s mouth twitched. His eyes narrowed. He breathed out as if he was suddenly exhausted, and then touched his temple with two fingers. His eyes didn’t leave David. “After you left, where did you go?”

“Where?” David started. He flicked a look at the paper in his hand, but still couldn’t read it. The words jittered before his eyes. He moved his gaze back to Guardiola instead, because Guardiola was crisply still. “I went—west. They were coming out of the wells—you couldn’t even get water without fearing for your life. They must have come before. The legends talk about it, and say what they look like. That’s right so I thought the rest must be as well.”

“You went to seek out the oracle?” Guardiola said slowly.

David rolled his shoulders back, then jerked his head to the side. A bone in his neck popped. He grimaced, but not at the popping bone. “I did. The last time they came, the oracle told of the way to stop them.”

Disbelief didn’t rest in Guardiola’s eyes, but a touch of impatience flitted through them. “I know. I found a book—it recorded what the oracle said then. We still have the banner. We dipped it into the main wells and they stopped coming, so we knew it was right.”

“I knew that a long time ago,” David muttered.

Guardiola leveled his gaze at David. He didn’t snap his voice, but it stripped the confidence as surely as a whip would flesh. “No, you didn’t. You had a guess. We all had our guesses. In the end yours appears to have proved right, but at the start, when we hardly knew what we were facing and people wanted—they wanted to burn madmen simply to have someone to blame—we couldn’t risk the city on such chances.”

“I never asked to risk the city. I asked for some belief in me—but I was given none, so I left. I went to go see for myself,” David retorted, stung. He stepped back and his hip struck the table. When he grimaced, his gaze drifted down and he saw the paper again. He began to read it. “I went as fast as I could, but at the mountains I had to…I couldn’t go into them. There was some—something. I’d go forward and then make camp, but when I woke in the morning, I’d be back where I started. Finally I came back, but I wasn’t giving up. I was only going to see—I’d heard of better records at La Ciudad de Che and I wanted to consult them. I didn’t bother to get the news, and then those idiots there thought I was a witch.”

“So you didn’t hear about Hierro,” Guardiola said. “Did you hear about Raúl?”

The sheet of paper in David’s hand was a will. It disposed of all Raúl’s belongings to his heir, and then listed a series of requests and recommendations to his friends and allies, asking them to continue this or do that for his heir. “I only met him two days ago. I told you.”

“At La Ciudad de Che. Why would he be out that far, in this time?” Guardiola’s voice had risen in volume, and when David looked up, he saw that it was because the other man had moved much nearer to him. “He went to find—”

“He told me,” David muttered. The reading went more slowly than he would have wished, and part of it was having to listen to Guardiola. Part of it was admittedly himself. He knew very well that he had no concerns with Raúl’s possessions or allegiances—particularly since he’d allowed himself to become one of them—but he still could not help but read about them.

For a moment Guardiola was silent. “Told you? He told you that after you left, Thuram sent us a copy of a book he’d found, which tells you where the oracle is? And that you have to go east, not west, and that the seeker pays for the prophecy with his life?”

David’s eyes had just touched the beginning loops of a familiar name. He struggled between it and Guardiola’s words. The outraged insistence in Guardiola’s voice was finally too much and David looked up. “East?”

“Raúl went. He said we could spare him—I begged to differ then and I still do—and that he’d have the best chance, because his line was involved in the last war,” Guardiola said. His voice was trembling with the effort he put into keeping it low and harsh, and not bluntly forward like the flashing in his eyes. “We all thought we were watching a dead man ride away. But he returns. And he’s strange now, and last night he came to me and…and we are friends. We’ve been other things, but that was settled long ago. He shouldn’t be speaking of the dead past, but he was. And then he disappeared from this room, right before my eyes, and left only that.”

Guardiola nodded to the paper in David’s hand. David looked at it and his name, the name he’d only begun to read, leaped out. He read it, then again. Then he read what came after it.

He looked sharply up. “How did Hierro die?”

“He made a bargain,” Guardiola said after a moment. Something odd was happening to his eyes. The anger there was whitening, like the way a fire in a smith’s forge would change color as it was stoked. But at the same time its edge was melting, and the brightness of it was less from heat and more from—the light of the room itself. The light reflected the tears in his eyes. “When you were gone, they poisoned the stream that feeds our wells and we had no water. We hadn’t the men to force them back, but…but there are other things that have come now. It’s as if their coming has broken a wall somewhere, and now all the old tales are real again.”

“Then don’t waste time telling one,” David snapped. “_How did he die_?”

The anger coiled back behind the tears. It could have lashed out and struck at David, and Guardiola did consider it. But instead he breathed deeply. “This thing came to the Mestalla Gate one night. A god, I think. One of the old ones. He had ram’s horns curling in his hair. He said once it’d been his stream, and he still had a thirst for it. He called for someone to go with him, to purify it, and Fernando went. Fernando never returned, and in the morning the water was sweet again.”

David opened his mouth, but in place of words came a long, rasping breath. He read the paper again, then abruptly crushed it in his hands with a snarl. Then he threw it from him, and in the same motion he spun on his heel. His leg pained him but he noticed it only as one would notice a drop of water falling on the skin amidst a storm.

“Villa!” Guardiola called after him. “Where are you going?”

“For my master!” At least David had no need to stop for anything—thanks to Silva’s persistence, he admitted. He was dressed and ready to leave, and needed only to wrench open the doors. “He’s not dead yet,” he said to himself. “I’ve still nothing, that fool.”

He heard the other man come running after him and he let the doors swing back. The whine of their hinges crested over Guardiola’s muffled curses, but David wasted no time in trying to make out those. Instead he threw himself into the hall. He meant to start downstairs as quickly as possible, to find himself a horse or some means of getting out of the city, but a movement attracted his attention.

Silva stood in a niche to the left and waved his hand once more, then disappeared. David slung his body towards him, then hesitated. He had no knowledge of what Silva meant to do and no time to find it out.

“Villa!” Guardiola’s roar threatened to take the roof off.

He was too close, and David too slow on his hurt leg. A moment’s wait longer out of frustration, and then David plunged after Silva.

* * *

The niche disguised another pivoting wall, and behind that another hidden passage. There must have been a counterweight because once David was through, the wall swung back into place. It moved so quickly that he felt the wind of it shave the backs of his heels.

Then it was pitch-dark. He stopped where he was. Dimly he could hear the shouts of Guardiola and his servants, but they sounded as if they came from a great distance and not from mere inches away.

“You’re quick,” Silva said. He was so close that his breath brushed warmly against David’s face, like curious fingers. He sounded as if he were laughing.

David put out his arms and he touched a shoulder and a hip. He seized the one and dropped the other, and pulled on his hold as a faint greenish light slowly illuminated the darkness. Silvery lines drew out the features of Silva’s face.

He was smiling. But David was not. “Take me to Raúl,” he snarled. He flexed his fingers into Silva’s shoulder. “You knew it hadn’t been that long—it wasn’t morning. You knew it was only an illusion he put on me. You know where he’s gone, don’t you?”

The lines of Silva’s smile straightened, then curved the other way. He lowered his chin as if he meant to nod, but then his shoulders followed the motion. He bent forward. His hands rose and felt at David’s arms, then curled softly around them as Silva leaned into David, almost like a child seeking comfort. The top of his head grazed David’s jaw as David turned his head, trying to make out what Silva was after. Silva’s hair looked stiff and bristly, but felt like the softest of pelts.

“I,” Silva whispered. His fingers rippled on David’s arms, shifting higher. Then they settled again, and he raised his head a little. Warm, gentle breath stroked along David’s cheek. It could have been a mouth.

David twisted his leg. A bolt of pain shot up his spine. It cleared his head and he shoved Silva away, then shook the fox-demon hard. “Where is he? You want to help me, you take me to him.”

“Why does it matter to you?” Silva took his hands from David and shrugged off David’s grip as easily as water flowed downhill. It was hard to see but the lines of both his shoulders looked smooth and lean. He was no longer wearing that bandage. “You hate him.”

“You don’t know anything about him and me,” David said sharply. “Where is he?”

Silva stood and gazed at David. His face was smooth and emotionless. The glow from his eyes only let David see him, and no further than that.

Then Silva turned. At the same time he put back his arm and his hand brushed across David’s belly. It could have been an accident since he didn’t look to where his hand went. It could have been intended. It could have been flirtatious or arrogant or mocking. But whatever its other meanings, its first was that David was to follow him.

David did. After the first step, Silva began to walk more briskly yet somehow managed to drop back to David’s side. He thrust his hand under David’s arm and made David walk to his pace. It was hard on David’s leg but Silva seemed to pay no attention to that, and David made no attempt to ask him to do so.

“You’re right,” Silva said after a while. “He’s not gone yet. But this makes it hard. I still have to listen to him too, you see.”

“I don’t think you listen much to anyone,” David snorted.

Silva glanced at him. No mockery touched the fox-demon’s thinned, straight lips. Then Silva looked away. “We don’t listen the way you think of listening. We’re foxes. We go where we will, and live however we can. He cannot tell me what to do or not to do about you. But he can tell me what to do about him, and I have to listen to that. This may not matter to you but it means much to us.”

“I don’t care. You can go play in the fields—it doesn’t matter to me.” David looked up at the ceiling, then over his shoulder. But that was useless since the glow barely reached farther than them. He could see nothing of his back, let alone the door.

“You should care. Or else what will you do, when you find him?” Silva asked. He spoke critically, but with a strange dispassion. No offense at David’s words colored his tone. “You can’t tell him what to do either.”

“And he can’t tell me how to think of him. He can make me serve him, but he can’t change my opinion of him,” David muttered. Then he laughed. He wasn’t surprised by it, but he felt Silva hesitate against him. “Stop worrying about me. Take me to him, and you’ll be done with your debt to me.”

* * *

The ceiling grew lower and lower, or perhaps it was the floor that crept up on them. At any rate, the passage crushed them till they were nearly crawling. Silva of course managed better that way, closer to his true form. But David was better off than he would have thought, half-crouched with one hand on Silva’s back and the other groping at the wall or the floor. He could use his knee for support at times, and take the weight off his leg. It was more awkward but quicker.

They were not in Guardiola’s house anymore. The passage felt rougher, not like polished stone. Sometimes a fragment would come away in David’s fingers. Its walls were more rounded, much more like the burrow of some animal than something made by men. The smell of it was different as well. In Guardiola’s house it was damp and musty. Here the fetid odor pressed up against them as if it itself was alive, thick and acrid and in a strange way fresh. When something was disturbed, a new swell of the smell would rise up.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed, except that it had been too long. David tried several times to ask Silva how much longer, only to have to abandon the attempt when the passage suddenly turned or dipped, or changed in some other way that required David’s full attention. When he tried this time, it was no different. The floor reared up against his feet and when he pushed his hand out, he struck the wall much sooner than he’d expected. It nearly sent him onto his back.

Silva’s fingers wrapped around David’s wrist and yanked up his arm. For a moment David hung in that ill-balanced position, teetering on his toes. Then he lashed out his arm and dug his fingers into the wall. He steadied himself.

A moment later Silva wrenched at his arm again. The fox-demon was _above_ him now and David could not make out how that had been done. He had no time, for Silva hauled him upwards without warning.

Stones scraped at his shoulders, and then a fresh, sweet breeze battered David’s face like a blow with an ax. He reeled and his free hand fell limply on grass. He could offer no resistance as Silva seized the back of his shirt, then one of his ankles, and dragged him fully out of the hole.

David breathed out hard, then turned on his back. The pain in his body made him open his eyes very wide as he sat up. “It’s morning,” he said, surprised at the lightness of the grey sky.

“I told you it was,” Silva corrected. When David looked at him, he smiled but moved further out of reach. “Raúl wouldn’t have let Guardiola stop him either. He doesn’t want to hurt him.”

“But Guardiola said—” Then David swore and shook his head. He kept forgetting what Raúl was. It would be simple for Raúl to make both David and Guardiola sleep when he wished to slip away. As simple as it would be for Silva to look like a pretty girl on a haunted bridge. “Where is he?”

No one answered. David pushed himself about to repeat his demand, only to find that Silva was gone. He was alone.

More choice oaths came to David’s tongue, but he swallowed them down in favor of finding out where he was. He looked around once, then rolled onto his hands and knees. After pushing himself slowly to his feet, he looked again and spotted the walls of the city to his right. He was barely a stone’s throw from them, and in fact he knew this stretch very well. In better days he’d lived here, when the Mestalla Gate was known for its nearby marketplaces and not for its hauntings.

Hierro had been called from here too, David recalled abruptly. He tested his leg, grimaced and set off towards the bridge.

* * *

It should have taken David only a few minutes, but the ground was soft and boggy, the worst kind for a limping man. By the time he finally put his hand on one of the bridge’s beam, the first blushes of dawn were just beginning to spread across the sky. He pulled himself up to the wooden beam, slumped against it and coughed roughly. The damp cold air made his gasping hurt.

Then he propped up his chin against the beam and looked out across the bridge. In the middle stood Raúl. For some reason he was surprised to see David.

“You tried to bribe me off with Morientes?” David managed after a moment. He pushed himself from the beam, but his balance was too shaky for him to stand on his own. He dug his nails into the wood and glanced across the bridge’s end, judging its width. “He’ll love you anyway. He always does. But I’m different.”

“I told you I had a message for you to take to him,” Raúl said slowly. “In the morning—”

“It’s morning,” David interrupted. He twisted back and found Raúl had advanced about half a foot, and had also shifted towards the right, away from David’s corner. “And there is no message. You only wanted me to sleep again. You can’t put me to sleep. You can’t make me your damn heir. You _can’t_—can’t turn into a fox and run away from the whole city.”

Raúl’s brows drew down and he pursed his lips. Then he shook his head violently. He put up his hand between him and David, and began to walk towards the end of the bridge. “I’m not running.”

“No, you made a _bargain_. That you didn’t need to make. If you’d listened to me—” David’s angry tone sounded suddenly false and he stopped. He flexed his hand against the beam, then forced himself away from it. His stance was unsteady but it managed to rely on only his two feet. “You can’t leave it at a personal bargain. You’ve helped us but there’s still a war, and you still have to fight in it. This bargain means you leave that undone.”

“I didn’t bargain for the oracle,” Raúl said. He stopped again and his hand fell so David could see the irritation in Raúl’s face. But Raúl’s eyes kept flicking past David, to the end of the bridge. He slowed and sometimes stuttered a word because of his distraction. “There’s no need for that. You can go to it freely. But you can’t—I bargained for the right to _return_. To come and say that what had worked before would not work again. They’re stronger this time, they can be slowed but not banished by that. But there is a way, and I wanted the right to come back and let people know.”

“So you’ve returned! Then why are you going again?” David asked.

Raúl glanced past David again. His brow creased with concern and he lifted his hands. Then he lowered them and looked at David. His eyes tried to impress their will on David. “Because that’s the bargain. That’s my nature now. I cannot stay here, where I’ll not be wanted. I would be tolerated but I won’t put people to that trouble. They have enough as it is.”

“You’re always speaking of making things easier for others. It sounds so generous but you’re being selfish, is what it is.” David stumbled into the middle of the bridge. He nearly fell several times because he had to keep his eyes on Raúl, but from there he could block the whole end. “You don’t know that it would be trouble. You just assume so, and don’t ask anyone else. We all have to think like you.”

“David, why are you arguing—” Then Raúl grimaced away his confusion. His gaze moved past David. “I can’t stay.”

“I don’t care if you’re a fox,” David said. “That’s not what bothers me about you. You can be a fox and you can stay with me.”

Raúl’s eyes went to David and remained there. His mouth opened slightly, then pressed shut as he put up his hand. His fingers brushed at a stray hair on his brow, but his palm curved as if he was trying not to see David again. “I’m not a fox.”

“Oh? Then why do you have a tail?” David looked at the way the light on Raúl’s face turned from pale grey to yellow. Dawn was advancing.

“Because I rule them,” Raúl said simply. He made a movement forward and David moved to block it, and Raúl rocked back on his heels. Then he shook his head irritably. Some hair fell into his eyes and he tried to brush it away. His nails left red marks across his brow because he’d pushed too hard. “Leave me be, David. You’ll—”

“I won’t do as you did. I said I’d serve you, not that I’d _be_ you. I never wanted—that you would—I never wanted you to _leave_,” David finally grated out. The lacerations on his leg felt as if someone had stroked a hot poker over them. He had to put his hand down and grip his thigh to stay on his feet. “I wanted you to hear me. It never seemed like you did. I wanted—I wanted you—I wanted you. I left because I wanted to do something that would make you see me.”

Raúl looked at David. Then he raised his head and looked at David again. David met his gaze, and only then did Raúl’s eyes widen. He began to ask David a question, but abruptly jerked his head to the side to listen. A bell was tolling the hour. It was still early and so that was short, but as its peals slowly faded, the high shrill cry of a cock soared over them. The other man grimaced and shook his head. He put his hand to his brow and stopped the shaking, but only so the twist of his mouth could grow harder.

“It’s too late,” Raúl said softly. His eyes rose to David. “I have to go. I’ve made my choices. I am sorry, but I cannot change them now.”

He moved and David tried to mirror it, but the pain in David’s leg skewed him. David stumbled and fell the other way. But fortune was with him there, for Raúl had merely been feinting, and so this mistake actually brought David’s hands down on the other man. And once there, they fastened over Raúl’s shoulder and arm.

For a few steps Raúl struggled onwards, but finally David’s weight borne too heavily on him. He lurched nearly to the ground, then wrenched about to bring his face besides David. “David—” he hissed, fury and desperation warring in his eyes. Then his eyes cooled. “_Leave me_.”

The order shuddered through David’s bones. He writhed against it, clenching his teeth, feeling his very marrow seem to drain away. His head went back with the strain of it and his hands began to slip. Then he bit off a cry and hauled his head forward. His breath exploded from him and he sank so his chin drove into the top of Raúl’s shoulder, but he held the man.

“You’re not the only one who keeps secrets,” David rasped. He rode Raúl’s surprised gasp, then violent buck. Then he forced his arm around Raúl’s neck. Five sharp pinpricks planted themselves against his chest, over his heart, but he pressed closer in spite of them. “You should listen to me. You didn’t care why they called me a witch when you should have. So you’re the god of foxes now—well, I’ve spoken with the dead.”

Raúl snapped at David. His teeth flashed long and sharp, and then closed barely before David’s nose. He had been holding himself back, his eyes wincing even as he did it. When David used the moment to drag himself higher up Raúl, it was the other man who turned away.

“Sometimes the legends aren’t right. They say gods have no souls. I know that’s not true, because I’ve spoken with a dead god,” David hissed. He pulled on Raúl’s neck with all his weight and brought their faces almost together. “But if he lied, then it still doesn’t matter. I’ll give you mine.”

Then he threw himself forward. Raúl inhaled, twisted and ducked his head so he took David’s mouth on the bridge of his nose. But then he began to protest, and he forgot David could act swiftly as well. David dropped his head and found Raúl’s mouth.

* * *

David had met him in the bones of a farmhouse, half-gutted by the elements. A storm had driven David there after another fruitless attempt to journey into the mountains, under the only part of the roof that had remained. Then David had looked across the space, at the stone chimney that still rose solidly from the mud, and he’d seen him.

The dead god had looked like a man. Tall and pale-skinned, with broad shoulders. His head had no hair on it but he was not elderly or decrepit. His skin still stretched tautly over the sharp bones of his face. Dark narrow eyes sat on either side of a proud, hawk-like nose, and above a thin-lipped mouth.

They had talked for a long time while the storm rumbled on above them. Once the god had rolled his shoulders and behind him, a pair of shadows had swept over the chimney-stones like wings. And then at the end David had asked the god’s name, but the god merely laughed.

“Before, I was called Zinedine,” the god had said. “Before, before. But no one remembers that name now. The man was lost in the god.”

Then he had bent his gaze on David, and David had felt the air behind him still.

“You’ll remember it.” The god had smiled. “That’s one again. That’s the difference. Gods continue eternally. Man begins again.”

* * *

They were in the mud by the bridge, past its end but Raúl made no attempt to move further. Instead he knotted his hands in David’s hair, fixed his mouth on David’s mouth. He’d always seemed so composed and civil, so very refined, but here he was taking to David like a wild beast. His knees battered at David’s hips, thighs, and then he turned them over.

Dirt squeezed between Raúl’s fingers and David’s hair to work its grit into David’s scalp. He lifted his head once, then dropped it back as he dragged up the hem of Raúl’ shirt. His fingers rolled under the cloth and stroked bare skin, then swept downwards as Raúl arched. One continued on smooth skin and the other ran onto something covered with silky fur. Then the fur shivered away under David’s hand and he was grasping skin again.

Raúl abruptly raised himself. He looked at David and David hissed, then levered himself onto one elbow and over, forcing them to their sides. “You make your choices, I make mine,” he said. “I can serve you and I can love you, and the two are different but that doesn’t keep them from sitting beside each other.”

Anger flared in Raúl’s eyes, was dampened by sadness and then blended into a strange wondering. He traced a shape on David’s cheek, his fingertip warm through the mud that coated it. “I can’t stay,” he whispered. “You can give me the right to return but you can’t keep me from leaving.”

“And I am what _I_ am, and I love you.” David gripped the other man’s waist. “Then go. Go as much as you want, but only if you come back to me. I’ll love you nonetheless.”

“You’re angry.” Raúl bent down. His breath caressed David’s cheek. His hands moved slowly over David from shoulder to hip, pressing out the lines of David’s body. “I make you angry.”

“I still love you. I hate you and I love you, and I’ll drive you away when you come. I’ll welcome you even as you leave,” David said savagely. He twisted his head and his mouth slid over Raúl’s jaw and lips, then came off at the chin when Raúl lifted his head. “That’s what I am. If you can come back to that, then I’ll stay for you.”

For a moment Raúl hesitated, looking down at David. The pupils of his eyes grew even though the sky was brightening. Then Raúl breathed in deeply. He ran his finger down the side of David’s face again, but this time his nail was a claw. He drew blood, and as David was flinching from it, Raúl bent and lapped it up. So David ceased flinching, and when Raúl reached the end of the cut, David turned his head and kissed him. There was still blood on Raúl’s lips but after a while, David no longer tasted it. He tasted no difference between Raúl’s mouth and his own.

The sun began to rise as they clawed at each other. Its light became too bright and David turned his face into Raúl’s clothing. Then into Raúl’s flesh as the clothing fell away, and then he twisted them over so his back was to the sun. He buried his eyes in the darkness of Raúl’s hair. By feel he found Raúl’s thighs and prick, and by the pressure of Raúl’s hands on his hips he guided his body against the other man’s.

But the light brightened relentlessly. It reached him no matter what he did, and he was unable to escape it. It blinded him.

* * *

Hands pushed up David’s shoulders, then left. Something dropped over his head and it was dark. He put up a hand and pushed it away, and someone put the cloth back over him. It was a cloak, and as he sat up, it was wrapped around him.

He blinked hard. Silva smiled briefly at him, and fastened the cloak at David’s throat. “Stand up. Guardiola will be here in a moment. He’ll take you back into the city.”

David exchanged his remark for a rough exhale at the last moment. Instead of standing, he twisted around in place.

“He’s gone,” Silva said. Now he sat back on his heels and folded his hands in his lap, like a demure lady. His eyes were calm. “He’ll come tonight.”

“I’m not going to call him,” David muttered. His leg hurt. His mouth tasted bad, full of stale bitter spit. He stared at the distant hills.

Silva’s laugh made him look back and he watched Silva rise gracefully to his feet. “You didn’t call me either. My debt’s over, you said so.” Then Silva’s smile went away. He gazed at David, his head cocked to the left. His hand came out and presented itself palm-up to David. “But I came anyway. I wanted to. He’ll come for the same reason.”

David flicked a glance to him, then pushed one hand down against the ground. The other he used to hold the cloak against himself as he levered himself to his feet. He grunted, then hissed out a breath as his balance slowly tipped in favor of remaining up. “I’ll be no kinder to you.”

“I know. But it’s not about kindness,” Silva replied. He took back his hand and looked at it with a strange intensity, turning it this way and that as he studied his palm. Then he let his arm fall naturally to his side, and in the same movement he lifted his head to look thoughtfully at the rising sun. “They say we’re selfish creatures, because we do as we please. But we have duties. That and honor. It’s only that we see you can do as you please much more than you think. It’s not a matter of doing as you please—it’s a matter of daring to do it.”

The mud slowly settled under David’s feet as he turned towards the gate. He could see horsemen approaching, a formal party with even banners flying. Guardiola’s crest, as Silva had said, and under the colorful standards was the glint of steel. Perhaps it was coming to David’s defense—Silva had not yet told an outright lie, after all. Or perhaps not, since David had left precipitously, and under yet another cloud of suspicion.

David snorted. Then his lips pulled back from his teeth. He laughed, and when Silva looked at him, David only let the laugh round out to its fullest aspect. “It’s not only you who are selfish. Don’t be so quick to claim such things as your own.”

Silva glanced again at him, then stepped away. He looked away from the city, at the road where a streak of dust was rising under the hooves of another party. “Morientes,” he said, nodding towards it. “You have Raúl’s legacy whether you will or not, you know.”

“Don’t make me upset. If I’m to be nice to your lord Guardiola, you’ll want me in a better mood than this.” The cloak would hide most of the obvious traces, David supposed, but his very clutching at it would be just as revealing. He rolled his shoulders to ease the ache in them. It made the cloak slip and he made no effort to pull it back into place, although neither did he throw the cloak aside. The morning air was cold. “I’m no mighty lord like him, or like Raúl was. Still is, I suppose. To those townspeople I did no magic tricks—I only told them some truths the dead god had told me. But even that was too much for them and they called me a witch for it. All I do is what I think is honorable and necessary, and that’s all I will do. So _that_ to Raúl’s legacy.”

This time it was Silva who laughed. Then he stepped forward and brushed his hands across David’s shoulders. He withdrew when David irritably pushed at him, but only to smile as David looked and saw that the fox-demon had made his appearance well-kempt and elegant.

“I think what you have will be enough.” Silva’s teeth flashed at David. “At any rate, you can ask him tonight if he’ll accept that.”

“I don’t expect him to come,” David muttered. He stared at the party from the city, now close enough for him to make out Guardiola’s stony face. Then he dropped his head and rubbed at the side of his neck. Silva hadn’t neatened up the bruises, nor any other mark from Raúl. David pressed his lips together and rubbed harder, then sighed. He looked not at the city nor at the road, but at the distant hills. His voice lowered. “But I’ll hate him if he doesn’t.”

They stood together by the bridge. Two parties were coming to them, one from the road and one from the city. But David watched the hills.

**Author's Note:**

> If it wasn't obvious, this world draws a lot on the war between the Tuatha Dé Danaan and the Fomorians.


End file.
